


Better the Devil You Know

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Are we enemies or friends or dating or married?, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Kissing, Aziraphale gets along well with demons, Aziraphale makes tea as a means of warfare, Bickering is an expression of love, Book Characterisation, Courtship, Dagon my beloved paperwork queen and master of torments, Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Edwardian Period, Gentleman's Clubs, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage, Series Dagon, Surprise tropes, Walking Anxiety Attack Crowley (Good Omens), Yet another one-shot that decided to develop twists and turns, adversaries to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2020-11-25 19:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20917325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Aziraphale furnished him with what was a somewhat lovely single malt Scotch, which Crowley wasted by swallowing down until it burned his throat. “Dagon. You have Dagon in your shop. Aziraphale, my oldest and best enemy, I go away for just a few decades, and yousummon my line manager?You—you—"Aziraphale looked a little guilty.*****Crowley finds out that perhaps napping for a century isn't completely without consequences. One of the consequences is apparently finding himself courting an angel who is incomprehensibly attached to the Lord of the Files and Master of Torments. Love is a worse torment than even Dagon could dream up.





	1. Show me the way back home

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of this chapter started as a flashfic on my Tumblr (come say hi if you like, [Kanna-Ophelia](https://kanna-ophelia.tumblr.com/)) and decided it wanted to be a proper story.

####  1910

“Hello, angel, I’m back,” Crowley called out as he pushed open the door of the bookshop.

There was more than a bit of bravado in his voice. While in the old days he and Aziraphale had gone centuries without speaking, since the Arrangement they had got in the way of regular conversations. Perhaps sleeping for nearly an entire century without a word had been pushing the bounds of friendly adversaries a _little_. Aziraphale could get snippy at times, especially if he felt he was being left with all the work. Best, Crowley decided, to act like he was confident of his welcome, even if Aziraphale was looking up from his book with an expression that was more wary and dismayed than overjoyed.

“You’ll never guess what I have for you,” Crowley went on cheerfully. “Makes the best coffee ever outside of Italy, so much better than steeping it and putting it through muslin. It’s called a _napoletana_. I’ll have you weaned off tea in no time. Let me make you some.” He started to slither towards the stairs, knowing Aziraphale kept his gas ring up in the little office where his most priceless treasures were stored.

Aziraphale rose to his feet and got between him and the stairs. “That’s a very pleasant idea, my dear fellow, but perhaps some other time. I’m _quite_ busy right now,” he said firmly. “Come back tomorrow, we can do lunch."

“You don’t look busy. Anyway, what kind of way is that to greet me after ninety years?” Crowley demanded, forgetting to pretend the long nap hadn’t happened. He hadn’t precisely expected Aziraphale to exactly fall onto his shoulder and weep that he had been missed. He had been prepared for some snappiness, even if he also secretly hoped for a repressed sign of pleasure in his return, maybe a twinkle in blue eyes or a pleased lift of the corner of a mouth.

He hadn’t expected to be summarily dismissed and told to come back tomorrow as if he was making a delivery at an inconvenient time.

Crowley stepped to the left, and Aziraphale mirrored him, still blocking him. Interesting. Of course, it was Aziraphale’s bookshop, his special territory. Crowley, as a demon, was only allowed to enter at all because of Aziraphale's tolerance. There were strict unspoken rules in the Arrangement about respecting each other’s space and not pushing the boundaries of any permissions they had been allowed.

Crowley never was one to respect rules, spoken or unspoken. He feinted to the left, double-feinted to the left again because Aziraphale would expect that, triple-feinted to the left and then dived through on his fourth attempt. Aziraphale’s wings unfolded to block him, too late, and Crowley pushed through the very edges of his feathers and dashed up the stairs.

He half expected to be seized with painful holy light and awaken on the couch to a headache and a scolding. To his surprise Aziraphale put away his wings, held up his hand and hissed, “If you really must be nosy, do please be _quiet_ and not disturb them! Don’t let them see or hear you!"

“What do you have hidden here, a baby or a paramour?” Crowley used some of his power to shift into invisibility, something he found draining and rarely risked, and miracled the door silently open.

There was a circle, traced with horribly familiar runes, and glowing red. And there, in the centre, with their back mercifully to him, was...

A few moments later Crowley _was_ on the couch with a headache coming on, and hyperventilating, clutching his chest.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be so dramatic, dear boy, and stop gasping for air like that. You don’t even need to breathe.” Aziraphale patted his shoulder vaguely, as if not sure if it would be helpful or welcome. “I’ll make you some cocoa to settle your nerves. Or would you like something stronger?"

“You’re just going to go up there and make cocoa in front of a demon?"

“I don’t see why not. I make it in front of you all the time. When you bother to visit, that is."

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's collar. “Something. Stronger."

Aziraphale furnished him with a somewhat lovely single malt Scotch, which he wasted by swallowing down until it burned his throat. “Dagon. You have Dagon in your shop. Aziraphale, my oldest and best enemy, I go away for just a few decades, and you _summon my line manager_? You—you—"

Aziraphale looked a little guilty. “It wasn’t precisely intentional."

“Then banish them!"

“That would be unnecessarily rude. They say it’s really hard to get on with paperwork in Hell. It’s so hot and all the screams from the lost souls distract them. They’ve really been quite helpful to me with my own paperwork for the bookshop. No wonder humans try to summon demons so often. _Some_ of them are actually quite helpful."

“This. This is not in the spirit of the Arrangement, angel."

“We never agreed that there was only one Arrangement, Crowley.” Aziraphale frowned. “I _liked_ this shirt. The seams are never the same again after you replace them."

It was too much. Crowley left.

He spent the next few days reading newspapers, gossiping in pubs and clubs, and trying to make up for his nap. There was a lot to wrap his head around—a new monarch, boringly devoted to his wife and nothing like the hell-raiser his older brother, now uncomfortably ensconced in Hell, had been. Those flying machines old Leo had gone on about seemed to be gaining in practicality. Pollution seemed to be making a bid to rise up from minor demonhood.

Crowley investigated the suffragettes a bit, and decided that their rabble rousing was the kind of convenient thing both he and Aziraphale could claim credit for with their respective authorities. If there even _was_ still an Arrangement to claim it under. His lips twisted bitterly and he put the thought aside and went to catch up with what was going on in the musical world. All too many silver and brass bands for his liking.

Then there was fashion. Crowley tried out a curled moustache, but decided it looked like a moth had died on his upper lip, and shaved it off with some relief. He had never felt tall or imposing enough to carry off whiskers properly, and was grateful they seemed more optional now. He acquired some rather lovely new day-cravats and spats, and even experimented with a boater, which he reluctantly decided made him look like a stunted walking stick with an undersized parasol on top.

It would suit Aziraphale far better, but he wasn’t going to think about that treacherous old queen hobnobbing with Dagon. Even when he found he had unthinkingly bought two tickets to _Two Merry Monarchs_ and didn’t feel like human company. When he’d actually seen it, Crowley was glad he hadn’t offered the other ticket to Aziraphale. He couldn’t have endured the sarcasm. Still, a crowd full of theatre goers leaving the Savoy Theatre in a terrible mood was sure to add to the general aura of evil around London.

After eight days, Crowley gave in, paid a street kid to send a note to the bookshop in Soho, and went to wait in St James’ Park.

“Have you finished sulking yet, my dear?” was Aziraphale’s greeting.

“I don’t sssulk."

“You do hiss, at least. Here."

Crowley stared suspiciously at the bundle of papers Aziraphale dropped on his lap before flopping beside him.

“What’s this?"

“I’ve been filing all your paperwork with Hell for the last few decades. The least you can do is handle mine for a while."

‘’How many blessssings do you expect me to carry out, you blasssted angel?” At least this time he was hissing intentionally. Sinisterly and intimidatingly, he hoped.

“A few. Until you’re properly sorry.” Aziraphale handed him a second parcel, wrapped in paper and tied with what Crowley assumed was supposed to be was a pretty red ribbon, although it had been tied in a somewhat slapdash way.

“What’s this?"

“Ham and chicken salad sandwiches. You look half starved. Have you eaten at all lately?"

“I was asleep.” Crowley knew that he should have responded _You’re the one who should be sorry_ immediately. Now the moment had passed, especially since the angel had distracted him by bringing him gifts of food. And something about the inept wrapping softened him. Bloody angel never played fair.

“For ninety years. Without a word."

“I was sleepy! Anyway, it wasn’t without a word. I sent you a note explaining in 1832, when I got up to use the bathroom."

“And that’s all you did.” Aziraphale peered suspiciously at him over his spectacles.

“Yes. Well, I had a cup of tea, took a piss, had a bath, wrote you a note."

Aziraphale sighed. “You might want to look up the Great Reform Act of 1832. There’s probably a commendation in your post.“

“Oh, really? Thanks.” Crowley unwrapped the sandwiches and passed one to Aziraphale. They ate in companionable silence, Crowley trying to not devour his too obviously ravenously, while Aziraphale tossed crusts to the ducks.

Eventually Crowley remembered that he was supposed to be outraged and angry. “So that’s why you summoned another demon? Because I was asleep, and you were crabby?"

“I wasn’t crabby. And I thought you were _joking._"

“Why didn’t you come and check on me, then?"

“I don’t know where you live these days, dear boy."

“Oh.” That was odd, when he thought about it. Aziraphale lived at the bookshop, and Crowley went there all the time. Why had he never thought to give Aziraphale his address? It just didn’t, well, feel as cosy as the bookshop. Not that Crowley liked cosy things. Luxury. That was what he liked. He just found Aziraphale’s crowded bookshop… luxurious. Or at least his collection of alcohol.

“You were probably napping in a cosy crypt at the graveyard."

“Don’t be catty. That’s vampires. So why did you summon a demon?"

Aziraphale was silent. He took another sandwich, and carefully tore off the crust for the ducks. He was slightly pink around the ears.

“Oh, so that’s it.” Realisation dawned, and his stomach lurched. "You were trying to summon _me._"

“I was worried! Thought you were stuck back in Hell. You hate it down there. The brimstone makes you cough."

Crowley smirked. “You _missed_ me."

“Stuff and nonsense."

“You couldn’t do without me. You were so desperate to see me that you risked your halo by conducting a demonic ritual."

“Balderdash.” Aziraphale threw a ball of bread crust quite viciously at a duck, which gave an offended squawk. “Sorry, dear.” For a moment, Crowley thought he had merited an angelic apology, and then he realised Aziraphale was apologising to the duck.

Crowley was acutely aware of the inches between them, of Aziraphale’s broad and comfortingly human form with the angelic wisdom and grace burning just below the surface, the rounded slope of his gut and bright intelligent eyes and irritable lips and how somehow the whole, flawed human and ethereal angel, added up to something more unique and beautiful than either. He was tempted to slide over, close the gap, lean against one plump arm. Distance that had never been crossed.

Crowley was in Temptations. He wasn’t used to being the one tempted. At least, not temptations he felt the need to resist.

It would be hard to convince Heaven and Hell that this was an accidental meeting if he was snuggled against Aziraphale’s side.

Instead he said, “It’s fine, angel. I feel the same way about you."

“Oh, _nonsense_,” Aziraphale said, and stormed off.

Crowley watched him go, wishing he could bite his stupid forked tongue off, and finishing the stupid delicious sandwiches with their stupid paper and ribbon packaging.

It was only as the afternoon shadows been to draw in that he realised he had done nothing to resolve the problem of Aziraphale providing a study for Dagon in his bookshop.


	2. A new future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley visits Dagon in Hell, and considers the interesting question of how to court a second-hand book dealer who is also quite literally an angel.

Crowley woke up only a couple of days later this time, after dreams of varying content, all apparently set off by sitting a few inches away from Aziraphale on a park bench after too long apart.

Well, no. It was that Aziraphale had missed him, missed him enough to take really stupid risks to get him back, all the while covering for him with Hell. It was the way Aziraphale had awkwardly patted his shoulder, when they rarely touched, and made him sandwiches with what seemed to be his own heavenly hands, no miracles, and fussed over him being thin. It was that even Crowley could tell that he mattered more to the angel than the Arrangement and generalised goodness explained. It was that knowing these things dragged into the front of Crowley’s mind things he had thought were safely stored in his corporation’s hindbrain where he didn’t have to think about them.

Most of all, it was that the thought of Aziraphale establishing any kind of rivalry, friendship or other _arrangement_ made him feel prickly and uncomfortable and that was intrinsically linked with some of the things he'd stored about intelligent twinkling eyes that saw right through him, a broad chest and a heart broad enough to take in both humanity and demons, generous thighs and a more generous soul under all the prickliness and self-righteousness and self-indulgence.

None of which, apart from avoiding Dagon around the bookshop, Crowley really had to do anything at all about. He could do nothing and let things drift back to usual. Aziraphale would get bored with Dagon, or vice versa.

Crowley hated big choices; his mind slithered away from them in panic. But that was a mistake made before the beginning of time—don’t choose, and the choice is made for you, and you’ve found you’ve sauntered your way down to a cold home in the ninth circle of hell and there’s no way of saying hey, I didn’t mean to decide, give me another chance and let me back in the warm. Hey, I was only truly trying to make some trouble to avoid getting into trouble myself, I didn’t _mean_ to cast humanity out of the Garden. Hey, I was just trying to be sensible about work, didn’t mean to tie myself to a fussy book-worshipping angel for millennia.

Well, it didn’t always work out so badly.

Crowley was nothing if not an optimist.

He drew some complicated chalk sigils on the floor, took a deep breath, and stepped down into Hell.

* * *

Dagon looked down from the towering piles of paper. They were seated on their own precarious pile of twenty imps, held up with desperate efforts by some unfortunate lost souls. Crowley regretted sending down those Hieronymous Bosch drawings.

“Ah, Crowley. How is my favourite field agent?"

Crowley blinked. He hadn’t been greeted so warmly since the Thirty Years’ War. “Well, you know how it is. Doing wrong, spreading evil, taking in the sights."

“And turning in stellar paperwork,” Dagon beamed, looking positively pretty with the joyful glimmering of their scales. “Really an example to us all. I’m making this lot here—“ they gestured to a row of cages full of hollow-eyed demons —“copy out your last century's reports a thousand times each in their own blood until they learn how to properly convey detail. Now, how can I help you?"

“Just a social visit, really,” Crowley said. “I know how hard it is for you, never getting out of the office."

Dagon’s pale blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Indeed. The labours of evil are never done."

“Thought you could appreciate some juicy gossip.” Crowley took a deep breath. “I’ve heard rumours that my Adversary, the Principality Aziraphale, is on the verge of Falling. They have deliberately summoned a demon lover. Can you imagine who the unfortunate demon might be?"

The pile of imps formed a graceful stairway, which Dagon shimmered down like an eel. “Come into my office for a chat."

“What I don’t understand,” Crowley said, when uncomfortably ensconced on Dagon’s spare throne, which smelled dank and salty, “is why the angel hasn’t fallen if he’s summoned a demon, let alone if he's fucking one.” He accepted a glass of fermented shark’s blood, trying not to shudder.

“It’s highly unlikely that an angel summoned a demon for sexual congress. There’s more likely to be a more innocent reason."

Crowley snorted. “How can you summon a demon for innocent reasons?"

“Angels. They make no bloody sense,” Dagon sighed. “Still, an arrangement with a demon doesn’t in itself guarantee a soul, or our glorious mission would be much easier.” Crowley tried not to flinch at the A word. "Intention counts, or the road down here would be a lot less entertaining."

“So what about the rest of it?"

Dagon shrugged, leaning back in their chair in a bored way, arms crossed over their chest. “Sex in itself isn’t enough. If the angel could convince himself it was out of love, they wouldn’t fall. We’ve even had humans _marry_ demons and be snatched away by Heaven at death because they did it for,” their mouth twisted in disgusted, rows of teeth showing, "true love. But Aziraphale’s not an idiot.” They cleared their throat suddenly. “I mean, I’ve never met him myself, but I’ve read your reports with great interest. He is clearly an extremely clever and wily opponent, and you have achieved great success in keeping him under restraint, especially this past century."

“Indeed I have.” Crowley sent a silent—no, not prayer, that would be dangerous, thought of gratitude bookshopwards for Aziraphale’s reporting. “So, sex out of love wouldn’t do it? Even with the hope of redemption for the demon?"

Dagon shrugged again. “Have to find a demon capable of convincing an angel they are worthy of love, and if we could do that, snake, Hell would be full and the War would be as good as won. No, if you want to earn your spurs with a fallen Angel, you’re going to have to do better than that.” They unfolded their arms and adjusted their trailing collar. “Keep this to yourself, Crowley. Wouldn’t go to have rumours going around of secret arrangements between demons and angels."

“No, I quite agree.” The two demons nodded to each other, and Crowley wondered if he imagined a glint of understanding passed between them. Probably imagining it. Dagon might find the bookshop restful and Aziraphale soothing company, but they were still a sadist by nature, and absolutely did not have a soft side.

Crowley gulped down his fermented shark’s blood wine, and Dagon’s smile sharpened as if to remind him of that fact.

* * *

So, demon lovers were apparently acceptable, so long as there was love. That was a relief, because Aziraphale would hate falling, the food in Hell was terrible even when Dagon wasn't choosing it. It would make Crowley feel horribly guilty. Facing _love_ was worse than facing _wanting_, but of course love came easily to angels, at least in theory, and if it was a choice between facing it and risking Aziraphale going on making friends with other demons--

—at least Aziraphale probably wouldn’t ever make him say it. He would smile and look knowing, which would probably be _worse_, but he wouldn’t make him say it.

The question was how to get started. Crowley had no experience in courtship. It was one of the bewildering rituals humans followed, that changed through time and place, that ended up in marriage or sex or both. He knew all the steps, had encouraged humans into them frequently and sat back and enjoyed the chaos, but it was all very well to read the steps of a dance and a different thing entirely to be on the dance floor attempting a chassé with a partner who could be guaranteed to step on your feet.

He supposed he could skip it all and just dive in for a kiss, but his black demon soul started hissing with terror at the thought. Especially if Aziraphale was enough of a bastard to tempt some witticism like “Are you trying to tempt me, old serpent?” It would be unbearable. No, there had to be some indirect declaration and some sign of acceptance of the new direction of the Arrangement first.

After some thought, Crowley sent a message via street kid, hastily scribbled. No greeting, no sentiment. Just:

> Do you have lunch arrangements with the Lord of the Files?

The note was, however, accompanied by a basket of fruit, all miraculously at the exact stage of most delicious ripeness, and carefully arranged in layers. It had taken Crowley much thought. First figs, raspberries and hazelnuts, to convey remorse for their estrangement. Then peaches to flatter, currants to grovel, and pears to convey what the ham salad sandwiches had conveyed to him. The final layer had cost him much internal debate, but after all, might as well face disaster over the whole deal as over a minor transgression, and with Aziraphale it often paid to be direct. In a burst of insane optimism, he added gooseberries, with limes, and quinces. And—why not? A single, perfect apple.1

He considered adding a pineapple, but the basket was mortifying enough as it stood, if Aziraphale read the message conveyed. Crowley was already blushing and curled into himself with horror at the thought. Courtship was a torment worse than Dagon would dream up in a million years, he didn’t know how humans managed it off so easily. How they didn’t die of humiliation before having any offspring was beyond him. Crowley was determined to succeed, because he was never, ever doing anything as degrading and terrifying as this again.

He waited impatiently for the response. It came quickly, in a tiny lilac envelope and on a tiny lilac piece of paper, scented with potpourri, in writing neat cramped so small that it gave the impression that Aziraphale felt it was his personal responsibility to protect the world from a paper and ink deficit. Crowley supposed that notes stole valuable resources away from books.

> Respected adversary,
> 
> Your kind and most welcome favour was gratefully received. I find myself alone and at a loss for company. If you should see your way clear to visit, I would appreciate a companion for lunch.
> 
> Ever, my dear Crowley, your obliged and affectionate friend,
> 
> Aziraphale

Crowley stared at it for a while, trying to peer between the lines. Certainly Aziraphale seemed less pissed off. Almost tender. Hopefully it was because the gooseberries had turned his mind in less than pure directions, although equally likely it was that he was hungry and just liked fruit.

He scribbled a note on the back.

> Angel,
> 
> I’ll collect you at noon. Expect to stay out all day. I’m dragging you into this century with me.
> 
> Crowley

He probably, he thought, should have made it more sentimental, but he was already discorporating a thousand discorporations over the basket of fruit, and even a _your dear friend_ would have finished the job for good.

Right. He checked his pocket watch. Two hours in which to come apart at the seams through nerves. Perfect.

1 Meanings according to Kate Greenaways’ _Language of Flowers_:

Figs: argument  
Raspberries: remorse  
Filberts (hazelnuts): reconciliation  
Peach: your qualities, like your charms, are unequalled  
Currant: thy frown will kill me  
Pears: affection  
Gooseberry: anticipation  
Quince: temptation  
Lime: conjugal love  
Pineapple: you are perfect

↩

p> 


	3. The Way to Woo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale twinkled over his glass at Crowley. "So, my dear, to which decadent twentieth-century delights are you proposing to initiate me today?"

After much thought, Crowley took chocolates to the book shop. Again, he had thought about flowers, but it seemed too much, really. All his vague ideas of romantic courtship seemed to wilt a little when he thought of Aziraphale looking at him sardonically, hands folded over his stomach.

Still, Crowley's itching romantic sensibilities prompted him to take _some_ token of devotion, and Aziraphale liked sweets.

"Fruit _and_ chocolates on the same day? Are you fattening me up to be devoured?" Aziraphale's expression was stern, but the corner of his eyes crinkled, and Crowley found himself relaxing.

"Thought you might have been hungering without me," he said with elaborate casualness, and was both delighted and terrified to see Aziraphale become a little pinker. This flirting thing wasn't as difficult as he thought. "Glad your clobber passes muster," he added, looking at approval at Aziraphale's quiet dove grey suit. "We're lunching at my club and I'd hate you to be turned back at the door."

"Brooks's again?" Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "My dear boy, am I to lose you to the whist table already?"1 Tit for tat, Crowley supposed, flushing a little himself. This game was new, and somewhat unnerving, but it seemed Aziraphale was willing to play along. "I would prefer to lunch at my own club."

Crowley had no intention of going to Garrick Club and risking losing Aziraphale's attention to some fascinating writer or composer.2 He was determined to be the most fascinating being present. "Oh, I'm putting my stakes on another kind of gamble today," he said lightly, leaning on his cane. "New century, new club."

He directed the cab to Piccadilly Street. Crowley was to all appearances young, fairly good looking and clearly flush with money, and extremely good at implying connections to the best families. A few hints, and he had been proposed and elected to the Bachelors Club with almost unheard of speed. It suited his needs: fashionable, high spirited to the point of wildness, and full of much younger men than most clubs. Plenty of chances to create mischief, there.

Crowley had another reason for choosing it for lunch. There were certain rumours about the Bachelors Club that suggested to him that wining, dining and wooing what was to appearances a gentleman might be more accepted there than at other establishments.3

He wondered if Aziraphale made the connection. It was hard to know, even after thousands of years of best enmity, just what was going on behind those piercing blue eyes. The angel was ferociously intelligent, undoubtedly. He was equally undoubtedly inclined to let human affairs flow past him with detached tolerance as if far less relevant and interesting than a new manuscript.

Surely Aziraphale knew what Crowley was doing. The demon was hardly being subtle in signalling intent. And Aziraphale was not objecting. He must, at least, be waiting to see where things went and how far Crowley took them.

Crowley hoped Aziraphale had missed him as much as he thought he had.

They were soon settled in the coffee room of the Bachelors Club with soup and an excellent pale East India sherry. Aziraphale twinkled over his glass at Crowley. "So, my dear, to which decadent twentieth-century delights are you proposing to initiate me today?"

Crowley drew his breath in, trying not to hiss. There had to be meaning in that look, he was sure of it. "I've been catching up on the things I've missed myself. The boys here have been introducing me to the gentle sport of ping-pong." He grinned.

"Heaven forbid." Aziraphale shuddered expressively.

"Well, you should know. Sure you won't give me an after-dinner game?"

"I don't have the figure for it," Aziraphale said firmly.

"I think you have a magnificent figure for anything you choose," Crowley said, softly, warmly and with intent. Again, the light flush of colour rose on those round cheeks, an extra spark lit his eyes. It was almost enough to make Crowley abandon his plans, lean forward and press Aziraphale's hand in his and--what? Make a declaration of eternal passion? His mind shied away from the thought.

"That's very kind of you, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "Still no ping-pong."

"Oh, you'll break my heart." Crowley attempted to give him a melting look over his dark glasses. From Aziraphale's alarmed look it was rather more threateningly serpentine than Crowley had meant it to be, and he hastily pushed his spectacles up again. "Well, in that case, I'm afraid we must chance the hats of ladies at a matinee before dinner. I have tickets to _The Quaker Girl_ at the Adelphi."

"That sounds suspiciously virtuous, so I suppose it is the opposite."

Crowley grinned at him. "Come, my friend, you can enjoy a little celebration of decadence with me. You must have been missing the excuse of my company to misbehave." He should have stopped there, but his stupid forked tongue tripped on, "Unless you have been letting another demon seduce you to sin."

The words sat, bitter, in his mouth. Aziraphale fussed with his napkin, and ignored them, and Crowley felt he would have preferred anything to no response at all.

"I need to go refresh myself," he said, caring nothing for etiquette, caring nothing that Aziraphale knew quite well he had no need to do so, just wanting to break away for a moment to collect himself.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said with sudden urgency in his tone.

Crowley ignored him and headed for one of the members' loos to splash water on his face. Idiot. This whole affair was idiocy. Aziraphale would do precisely as he wanted, as he always had, in regards to Dagon _or_ Crowley. If he had wanted some kind of romantic entanglement with a demon he would have started it himself by now. Aziraphale was probably letting him make a fool of himself as punishment for deserting him for his long nap, chicken salad sandwiches or no chicken salad sandwiches. Crowley felt desperate and wretched.

It had been much, much easier when he kept the thought of stupid human concepts like relationships shoved to the back of his brain. Now he had allowed them to take form, and hope, and that was just masochism for a demon. Risk of the job. God had no call to punish her Fallen, they were extremely good at making themselves miserable.

On his way back he ran into a lissom young man who hailed him with a cheerful "Pip-pip!"

"Monty," Crowley said, not even bothering to pretend to be glad to see him.

"So, how goes the touch?"

Crowley stared at him. Was Montgomery really asking about his seduction success? Because if so, he was tempted to curse him. "The what?" he drawled.

"The touch, Anthony, the good old soak. The podgy old bean there, your guardian or uncle or whoever he is, I doubt you're buttering him up for the fun of it. How much are you trying to bite him for? We need to know, for the betting book." Monty added, confidentially, "I got good odds on you getting at least fifty pounds. You can be a charming cad when you like, and the ancient relative looks like a soft touch."

"I'm afraid you are mistaken, Monty," Crowley said coolly, cold rage building inside of him. "We are no relation, and I am the one paying for the immense pleasure of his company."

He strode back to the coffee room, reflecting that Freddie Montgomery was an idiot who would have been better drowned at birth. Aziraphale looked up at him, questioning.

Before Crowley's brains could entirely function, he had grasped Aziraphale's hand, his fat, soft, _beautiful_ hand, if Montgomery wasn't too lacking in taste to appreciate it, and brought it quickly to his mouth, kissing it in full view of the room.

"Missed me?" he crooned, and then Crowley's brain caught up with the rush of outraged possessiveness that had been propelling him forward. "Ngk."

Aziraphale's eyebrows, which had flown up over his spectacles in surprise, dropped and creased with concern. "Sit down, my boy, and drink some water. I think I had better order for us both."

"Pfft," Crowley said, and sank into his chair, draining the remnants of his sherry.

It was a while before he recovered himself. The fare helped. The soup, the sole, the champagne, the pheasant, the claret, the ices, the cheese and nuts, the madeira... Well, possibly it was the champagne, claret and madeira, on top of the sherry he'd already drunk, that helped most of all. The club had an excellent wine list. By the time coffee and brandy were looming, even Aziraphale, who had truly angelic fortitude, was clearly three sheets to the wind, and Crowley was feeling that the world wasn't too bad after all. Especially not with an angel looking kindly at him as they finished the final course.

"You know, Crowley, you don't have to do all this," Aziraphale said, his face flushed with good food and spectacular drink.

"Don't I?" Crowley blinked, although he knew Aziraphale couldn't see. "Why not?"

"I mean, it's all very flattering, being courted like this, but it's not at all necessary, after all this time we have known each other."

"Oh," Crowley said stupidly, wondering if he should take this as an invitation to lean across the table and kiss his angel on that beautiful pink mouth. Might give that stupid Montgomery a healthy shock. He could find another club if anyone put up a fuss.

Aziraphale sighed. "It was very thoughtless and selfish of you to vanish for so long, but what can I expect from a demon? I forgive you freely, dear. No need for all this truckling for forgiveness."

"Truckling for forgiveness," Crowley said coldly. "So that's what you think I'm doing." So much for vaunted demonic seductive powers.

"Oh, I'm sorry. A demon would never truckle to an angel, naturally." The fond, patronising amusement in Aziraphale's eyes should be some sort of outlawed weapon in Heaven-Hell warfare. "Can we just forget it, and go to the show?"

"Already forgotten, angel. Now sober up. I don't want you dozing through the show."

* * *

Their seats in the Stalls were excellent ones, which saved Crowley from carrying out any of the threats he had made if anything obstructed their view. He began to cheer up. Perhaps he had approached it wrong, come on too hot and heavy all at once. After all, thousands of blameless--well, blame_worthy_, that was the point--years of the Arrangement, he napped for a few decades and suddenly Aziraphale was supposed to realise Crowley intended to fall into his arms and react in time to catch him.

No, Crowley would ease off a bit, maybe give a _few_ signs of devotion and amorous intent here and there, and Dagon, unable to leave his summoning circle, would seem less and less charming company. _Then_ Crowley could start in with some determined wooing. It would be fine.

The problem was, now he had entertained the idea at all, he wanted everything to happen _right now_ so he could stop chewing himself up over it with nerves. As if anything ever happened immediately with Aziraphale. But the angelic bastard was sitting next to him, being all warm and plush and smelling nice, and it was unfair, that was all.

The musical comedy itself--well, it was hardly Gilbert and Sullivan, but God or the Devil had apparently chosen the theme and names well enough to make Crowley cringe with humiliation.

> ""I am known as Anthony to the elect. The Boys or Knuts call me Tony - Tony Chute.

"Anthony," Aziraphale murmured. "Isn't that your current alias?"

> "Verily, friend, methinks Tony were better than Anthony."
> 
> "Say then you'll call me Tony, will you?"

"Would you prefer I call you Tony?" Aziraphale hissed.

"Shut up." Crowley wasn't even sure why the idea made him so embarrassed that his toes curled. Tony couldn't be worse than Crawly. He gritted his teeth and listened to the awkward flirting on stage.

> "They are too good to think of love. Are thee very good?"
> 
> "Don't make me laugh. Dost thee like only those who are very good?"
> 
> "I have seen none other."
> 
> "And if thee met one who was not so very good wouldst thou like him?"
> 
> "Perchance. One waxeth weary of the very good sometimes."
> 
> "Then Prudence, I will tell thee - I am not so very good. Not too good to think of love when I see thee."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably beside Crowley, and Crowley turned his head.

He could see in the dark. One of the perks of being a snake, or a demon, he was never quite sure which. And he could sense heat with his skin and tongue. So he could tell, very clearly, that Aziraphale was blushing like a rose.

"That angelic young lady," Crowley whispered into Aziraphale's ear, "seems to be looking for a demon to love her."

Aziraphale hummed noncommittally.

"Good thing she's found her Anthony who isn't too good to think on an angel with love."

"Oh, _hush_." Aziraphale's skin radiated even more heat.

Crowley sat back, suddenly well satisfied. Of course, apart from the fact that they were both wearing dove grey, Aziraphale and the heroine Prudence were not much alike. Aziraphale was a weightier proposition in both senses and definitely not some angelic maiden with golden curls and wide blue eyes, for all he was a blue-eyed golden-curled angel. He was a corpulent, fusty, tetchy old book dealer who just happened to be a completely and utterly perfect and glorious angel as well. A worldy angel who would be driven mad with boredom at the endless goodness and virtue of heaven.

Oh, they were singing and dancing now. Terrific.

> If the bad boy walks  
By her side and talks  
Will she snub him as a maiden should?

Aziraphale shifted again, and Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was thinking he should have snubbed the Serpent, way back in the Garden, instead of making polite conversation. Crowley hoped not.

> Well, I think thee's a lad  
Who is not so very bad,  
and I'm not a bit too good.

He risked a sideways glance. Aziraphale--oh. Aziraphale was _smiling._ A faint smile, indulgently playing over his lips. His precious angel who scolded and lectured and still saw the best in a demon, and who was not, when it came down to it, perfectly good or well behaved himself. Crowley's heart flipped over at the smile.

> May the bad boy please  
Give her hand one squeeze?  
He'd like to if only he could.

Now or never. Crowley reached across, staring straight ahead, and took Aziraphale's hand in his. There was a petrified moment in which he expected it to be knocked back, and then warm, plump fingers curled back around his.

> Oh I fear he's a lad  
Who is very, very bad.  
Now really, thee must be good!

Aziraphale chuckled. A rich, warm chuckle that went right up Crowley's serpent spine and made him feel like he was flying apart. He clung to Aziraphale's hand for dear life, and reflected that, perhaps, the day wasn't turning out to be such a disaster after all.

1 One of the older gentleman's clubs, known for the incessant and high-stakes gambling of its members.↩

2 Club with an arts bias, including literature, drama, music and painting. Seems the right place for a book-worshipping angel. (Insert jokes about the 1000 Guineas Club here.)↩

3 It was also one of the clubs that Wodehouse (himself a member of Garrick Club) based the Drones Club, haunt of Bertie Wooster, on. Make what connections you may, but as a Bertie/Jeeves shipper, I found it irresistible to send Crowley there. (The rumours of rampant homosexuality at the Bachelors' Club were apparently part of the reason for its demise.)↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and quotes from the libretto of _The Quaker Girl_, book by James T. Tanner, lyrics by Adrian Ross and Percy Greenback. Debuted at the Adelphi Theatre in 1910 and ran for over 500 performances.
> 
> You can listen to [A Bad Boy and a Good Girl](https://youtu.be/26ClmPnip7o) if you're curious.
> 
> I'm pretty slow updating on this one, so thank you for your patience! I promise more Dagon in the final chapter.


	4. Just a Little More Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I ATEN'T DEAD 
> 
> Operation "become more than friends with the angel" is going ahead, involving flat redecoration, music, and, unfortunately, Dagon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. I'm committing to updating this (and the pirate fic!) at least once a week until done. This was supposed to be the last chapter, did you say? Stuff that, once I started writing it again I was having too much fun. Suffer a bit longer, snake demon. 
> 
> Title is from Kylie Minogue's song "Give me just a little more time." Next line is "and our love will surely grow."
> 
> In shocking news I now have an official beta, the wonderful [Deamonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deamonia/pseuds/Deamonia).

Normally Crowley would have just strolled into the bookshop as if he owned it. Something about the hand-holding and, his heart hammered with embarrassment to remember, the hand _kiss_ made it difficult now. There was also the chance that Crowley’s line manager was catching up with paperwork upstairs, which was somewhat off-putting when he had seductive plans in mind.

He hovered on the doorstep, impossibly aware of memories that must have been pushed to the back of his skull. Aziraphale in almost transparent robes draped across broad thighs and rounded stomach, soft chest and gorgeously round shoulders exposed, a sheen of sweat on his skin. Aziraphale running a finger lovingly down the spine of a book. Aziraphale’s calves in high heels and tights. Crowley must have noticed those things on some level or he wouldn’t have the memories of them turning his knees to jelly now. He couldn’t remember them inducing any overwhelming longing at the time. That would just have been inconvenient and uncomfortable when they both had jobs to do, as pleasantly as possible.

Now, with Aziraphale prim and covered up in impeccable dove grey, the memories were tormenting him. Why hadn’t he tried lying his head on Aziraphale’s lap back then, or digging his fingers into his padded waist, or kissing him when it was more socially acceptable? He wouldn’t have been in this utterly stupid position right now.

All he had to do was go in, show off his coffee-making apparatus, and sweep Aziraphale off for dinner. Or if that was too much, kiss him goodbye. Enough to show intent. Easy.

Aziraphale was watching him with a slightly raised eyebrow, clearly wondering what he was going to do. Crowley had no idea what the angel was thinking, or what he suspected or had guessed.

Crowley sighed and fumbled for a silver case on his person.

“Here.” He shoved it at Aziraphale, who reached out to take it. Their fingers brushed, and even through their gloves, Crowley felt a shock, which was frankly unacceptable.

“Your card? The Hon. Anthony Crowley – oh, really, Crowley, * honourable*? You?” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled.

“My address. It’s on it,” he said gruffly. “You said you didn’t know where I lived. So if I oversleep again, you can come nag me a bit.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, his voice quiet.

“Look, angel.” It was no good. That mildly inquiring expression had him pinned like a bug. “When I lunch at home, I lunch at two. If you need some time off from chasing people away from your shop. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you then. Someone has to make sure you eat your meals.” Surely there was _meaning_ behind that. “I did rather miss you.” So quiet that Crowley could hardly hear it. “I suppose I’m accustomed to seeing you around.”

“Amazing what a few centuries can do,” Crowley said, his energy returning. “Tomorrow then, angel.”

He had just decided to lean in and dispense a hearty kiss on the other's cheek when Aziraphale turned away and was through the door.

Oh, well. He had paperwork to get on with.

* * *

It wasn’t so bad after all. Aziraphale had provided helpful notes, and it was just a matter of putting them in the ornate style Heaven required. Quite interesting, really, seeing what Aziraphale had been up to, and trying to guess which things he’d actually done and which he’d just fudged or taken credit for.

By the time he finished, it was the early hours of the morning, and Crowley decided he deserved a bath and shut-eye. He headed for his bathroom.

What he really didn’t deserve was to find Dagon splashing idly in his bath.

"Lord Dagon, this is my properly registered demonic territory!" Crowley protested, closing his eyes before he saw too many things he might regret. He had no interest in what human form Dagon would take. "You can't just walk into my flat and have a bath."

"Why not? Not much else to do in this dump. The water is much less sulphurous here than down below. This smells nice, what is it?"

Crowley risked peeking. "Soap, my lord."

"Oh, that makes sense. Made from piss, isn't it?"

"Not for a few centuries, I think. Soap making has moved on a bit since then."

Dagon stared dubiously at the translucent yellow bar and sniffed it. "Hmm. Not convinced. Why does it smell of rosemary? And why does it claim to be pears?"

Crowley thought about it for a bit and decided not to delve too deeply into it. "Humans are strange. Why are you here? So I can wash your back?" Oh, hell, he had to learn to control his tongue better.

"Is this why that angel of yours always smells so nice?"

Oh. Fuck.

"Angel? Wh-what angel? _My_ angel? How could I possibly have an angel? Traditional enemies, you know. They smite us on sight!"

"You always were a terrible liar, Crowley. I'm not completely stupid, you know. Three-quarters of your reports for centuries have been about thwarting the impressive angel Aziraphale. Who, for some reason, knew exactly how to summon demons -- but not necessarily the right one." Dagon beamed. Their human face was quite pretty, with long red hair and pale blue eyes, and utterly terrifying. "I can understand. They are quite charming company."

"My -- my Lord ---"

"And then you pop down to see me and ask all kinds of pointed questions about making an angel Fall through seduction. Next thing, Aziraphale is so distracted and flustered that I had to ask him three times to check my figures on impalement rates."

"Dagon, I can explain."

"Good luck to you."

"_What?_"

Dagon beamed. "Great initiative, seducing an angel. As I said, it's unlikely to work, given he's likely to have all kinds of disgusting motives like love -- although how anyone could love a crawling snake like you is beyond me-- but even if he doesn't Fall, you should be able to inject some infernal influence. Or at least get some intel for blackmail. Any resources you need, any ideas you need me to slip into his sweet unsuspecting head, just let me know."

"Th-thank you, Lord."

"I've always been proud of your independent mischief-making and willingness to take one for the team, Crowley. I'll expect your report soon."

"Soon?"

"When you're ready. Any time will do. No pressure, Crowley."

The water bubbled, and Dagon vanished, leaving a terrified demon alone in the bathroom.

* * *

It wasn't so bad, Crowley told himself. So Hell, or at least the part of it with direct line management responsibility for himself, knew he was trying to seduce an angel, and even approved. It was certainly better than getting s performance review while in bed with said angel and ending up having to explain it to Beezlebub in person. No, this was great. Just great.

It was even, when he thought about it that way, better than being caught being _friends_ with an angel. He was in Temptations, after all. Tempting was his job. Even if he tended to forget it and go for Aggravations instead, _technically_ he was still tempting, just tempting people into grumpy behaviour. Seduction was just another temptation. It was fine.

No, the problem was that he was on the clock. _Any time will do_ and _no pressure_ from Dagon meant _Get it done yesterday or you will find yourself dissolving slowly in acid while checking soul contracts for loopholes._

Dagon might be regularly checking in with Aziraphale to see if he'd been seduced yet. The thought was beyond horrifying.

_No pressure._

Satan, why had he even started this thing? Matters were fine with Aziraphale as they were. He'd been forgiven, the Arrangement was regaining its steady old rhythm. If only Crowley hadn't been confused by jealousy and sandwiches and just how plump and lovely Aziraphale looked buttoned up into present-day fashions. If only he hadn't convinced himself he wanted _more._ He was damned -- saved -- he was lucky to have his nice cosy non-interference and mutual cooperation arrangement with an angel anyway, without messing it up by wanting to hold his well-manicured hand and kiss his prim mouth and sit on his broad lap and...

Crowley's mind stuttered with panic at the rest of it. He wasn't sure he was ready to think in detail about the rest, even if his corporation liked the idea very much and was strongly expressing its urgent approval.

And maybe that, he thought dismally, was the whole rub. It was going to be -- his mind desperately rejected adjectives like _sweet_, _romantic_, _beautiful_, _loving_, _nice_ and settled on _personal._\-- His private business with Aziraphale, an extension of the Arrangement that was the best bloody thing in his Fallen existence, even better than single malt whiskey or indoor plumbing. It wasn't intended to be snickered over by the Dark Council.

_Aziraphale was coming over for luncheon._ He hadn't even updated the flat since 1805. He never really did anything but sleep in it anyway.

Right. There was only one thing a demon in distress could do.

He went shopping.

Well, shopping was one word for it. A few hours later, several wealthy London establishments were surprised to see their most elegant wares vanished, and Crowley was proudly looking at a flat with a polished floor and the light modern furniture, and bowls of scented potpourri giving the air a rich feel. Certain of the furnishings had a slightly serpentine motif they may not have had before and seemed to have developed of their own accord but overall, it was a flat fit for a demon.

He was particularly proud of the bedroom, with the sleek and shining brass fittings and black silk sheets.

Well. Crowley wasn't too sure about the boudoir doll. Though the salesman had assured him it would add a debonairly seductive and flirtatious air to any bedroom, far more modern than any mere bolster. Crowley had probably made a mistake in going for the Marie Antoinette model. He'd been motivated by a pang of nostalgia. Poor Antonia.

She was staring at him accusingly from the bed as if to remind him that he'd got a commendation for her execution as if it had been his bloody fault. Credit. His bloody credit, he supposed. All _he_ had done was try to interest the poor bored dear in farming, give her a hobby.

There was something fish-like about the doll's pale blue painted eyes. Oh, now she was reminding him of Dagon. That was impossible. Not even Dagon would stoop so low. Still, there was no way he was doing _whatever_ with an angel while some weird silk fusion of Marie Antoinette and Dagon stared at him. Crowley made a complicated gesture and banished the doll to the depths of Hell. Maybe it could give the real Antonia an amusement to pass her time.

* * *

The angel was in another almost fashionable quiet suit, eyes sparkling with what looked like amusement. Hadn't Dagon suggested Aziraphale was beside himself? Crowley had comforted himself by thinking of Aziraphale as even more nervous than he was, thinking of hand kisses and held hands and compliments and flirting and being alone together in the flat. But here the angel was, removing his hat and gloves, blue eyes twinkling as if Crowley was just too entertaining and ridiculous for words.

"So this is your devilish lair. Should I be keeping my eye out for imps with pitchforks?"

"They're murder on the furnishings." Crowley captured one bared hand, bowed over it, and kissed it lightly.

"I'm afraid you slept rather a while. Your manners are far too courtly for this decadent age," said Aziraphale. His tone was amused, but there were red spots on his cheeks, and Crowley would have killed to know what he was thinking. Well, not killed. He wasn't much for killing. Caused some major inconveniences or done more paperwork.

Aziraphale looked around with some curiosity. "It's very pleasant, my dear. It could do with some more --"

"If you say books, you're out on your pretty ear," said Crowley, glaring at him.

"Greenery, I was going to say."

"You know I don't get along with plants. They recognise I caused all the fuss in Eden or something, and wither when I look at them. Same reason horses hate me."

"You don't think it's because you are a snake?" Bless that supercilious air. Crowley decided then and there he was going to learn to grow flourishing plants just to spite the angel.

"Snakes have no problem with plants. Look, Aziraphale, you'll like this. Clever humans." He led him happily over to a large box with a brass horn and handle, his favourite acquisition of the day. He wound the handle vigorously, took a disc from the cabinet and carefully placed it on the turntable, moving the needle in place.

The descending triads of the third _Mephisto Waltz_ began to trickle thinly over the mechanical sounds of the phonograph. Crowley glared at the disc. He was almost sure the disc he had put on was Strauss, not Lizst.

"Enchanting," Aziraphale said politely. "I must get one for the shop."

Crowley tried to melt the disc with a glare. How was he supposed to invite an angel to dance to something as literally diabolical as that? Especially as Aziraphale knew quite well Crowley had been involved in the whole "sell your soul to the Devil for music" deal with Liszt. It would be tactless under any circumstances, let alone a demon trying to convince an angel to enfold him in his arms.

He turned to Aziraphale, feeling despondent, humiliatingly aware of a pout threatening to slip onto his lips. "Angel. . ." He wasn't quite sure where he was going with that, so he let it trail off. He raised a hand and plucked at Aziraphale's cravat.

"Oh, for _heaven's_ sake, Crowley," said Aziraphale, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS I am so sorry if you thought was was abandoned. Hope you haven't forgotten it.
> 
> There has been a lot of stuff going on. Health related, a lot of it, but also I have been immersed in writing a novel which, let's be brutally honest, started out as an AU human fic about book!Crowley and series!Aziraphale (who had Dagon as his boss.) One of those brilliant shower thoughts: "What if series!Aziraphale needed a pretend husband and hired an escort who actually wasn't book!Crowley but book!Crowley decided to pretend to be his escort anyway okay this really isn't *Good Omens* by this point but the guy's gonna have magnificent thighs anyway." But I am still excessively obsessed with my *actual* Aziraphale and Crowley and will not abandon them.
> 
> Thank you for not abandoning *me* and still reading. Love you.


	5. Everything we used to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And after the kiss? Cocktails, lunch, and Crowley finally finds out some of what is going on in Aziraphale's angelic head.

Aziraphale stepped back and settled comfortably on the nearest chair, for all the world if he hadn't just kissed a bloody demon. Crowley wondered if the angel had completely taken leave of his wits. Angels couldn't go around just kissing demons. It wasn't done. It certainly wasn't done with a mildly irritated air as if Crowley had required his tie adjusted, which he didn't, because his tie was flawless at all times. As if it was _nothing_.

Crowley should say something. All he had to do was pick the correct approach. Perhaps he should be drawlingly seductive. He tried to ignore the tickle of doubt about whether Aziraphale would laugh at that. An earnest declaration of devotion? Crowley nearly collapsed in terror at the thought. A suggestion they moved to the bedroom and figure out the physical thing? Crowley's hands were shaking now and he was close to running out of the room.

No reason to panic. Demon. Tempter. In control.

Crowley should be as insouciant as Aziraphale, but add a hint of meaning to it so Aziraphale would know that they were destined to be together like Romeo and -- no. Bad choice. Helen and -- no, not, that was worse, she went back to her husband and Aziraphale was a bit down on wholesale slaughter. Tristan and -- bless it. There had to be _some_ famous pair from opposite sides who ended up living happily together and fornicating their brains out with no one dying young.

The kiss had hardly been an obscene declaration of lascivious attempt. It had been closed mouth and quick. But firm. Very firm, and Aziraphale's lips had been soft but with a hint of hard teeth behind them and warm. With the suggestion that they _might_ be yielding given the chance and their noses had slotted next to each other nicely despite both wearing spectacles and oh Satan a human corporation's heart was probably not supposed to feel like it was five times bigger than usual and pounding against his rib cage.

Crowley wasn't sure how long Aziraphale had been regarding him from the chair, but saying _anything_ had to be better than standing there opening and closing his mouth like an ornamental carp. He tried to encourage himself. Say: _You are my sun and moon_. Say: _I adore you._ Say: _Can we be together like humans are?_ Say: _I couldn't face existence without our Arrangement._ Say: _I don't need heaven when I have you._ Say: _Kiss me again._ Sacrifice all dignity completely and say: _Please tell me you like me better than you like Dagon._

Don't say anything and just crawl onto that gorgeous inviting lap and kiss the breath out of the angel.

"Would you like something to drink?" Crowley asked hysterically.

"That would be very pleasant," said Aziraphale, giving him a kind smile. Bastard.

At least cocktails were a modern thing Crowley had educated himself about very quickly, with the help of Monty and the boys. They seemed an excellent method of reducing human inhibitions, so why not angelic? He had egg yolks waiting, to shake together with ice and chartreuse and some Cadbury's powder. Alcohol and chocolate, it could only be more Aziraphale if he'd added tea.

He probably should have remembered to put the cocktail shaker lid on before shaking.

"Oh, bless." He waved his hand in a complicated shape, and the cocktail reassembled itself in the glasses while his clothes regained their perfect condition.

Had Aziraphale's chuckle always been so rich and melodious and bloody infuriating? Blushing fiercely, Crowley handed him his drink.

"I think you need one more than I do," Aziraphale said.

Crowley glared at him. "Drink up and come into lunch." He downed his own cocktail. Very sweet, but then, Crowley liked sweet things. Sweet things with just a sparkling hint of sharpness.

Like grapefruit. He watched Aziraphale daintily cut into his grapefruit with his spoon, and the juice bead the surface of the slice. He watched the spoonful of yellow fruit conveyed to Aziraphale's mouth and enter it and it would be _wet_ and _bitter_ and _bracing_ and _juicy_ and oh bless he was swallowing it. Clearly, Crowley was in some new plane of existence where absolutely everything was oddly intimate and entrancing, and it was a torment.

No. Oh no. He wasn't going to start doubting Aziraphale. Obviously, it was a possibility that Dagon knew he was not pursuing Aziraphale with demonic intent. Obviously, Dagon was the Master of Torments. Obviously tormenting Crowley would be just their idea of fun. But surely even _Dagon_ wouldn't _kiss_ Crowley just to torture him. No, it was definitely Aziraphale sitting there.

Besides, Aziraphale liked to torment Crowley too, in his avuncular way. No wonder Aziraphale and Dagon apparently got along so blasted well.

"Is there something wrong with your grapefruit, dear?"

"'Sss fine." Crowley reached out with his mind, hoping Aziraphale wouldn't notice, and brushed the soul across the table. It was Aziraphale. Just his corporeal form, but the true Aziraphale, strong and lovely and burning brighter than the fires of Hell. And here Crowley was, small and dark and Fallen.

"Only you are scowling at it like it's poisoned."

"Why would I poison my own grapefruit? You're the agent of the Enemy."

"Quite." Aziraphale paused. "Perhaps you were counting on me eating yours as well."

"No chance. It's _my_ bloody grapefruit." Crowley wolfed it down and then remembered he had intended to be suave and romantic. He could have spoon-fed Aziraphale his grapefruit. Maybe Aziraphale had been hinting he could. It would have been playful and flirtatious. Instead, Crowley had nearly choked eating it too fast as if scared Aziraphale would have a bite.

"Soup."

The bouillon was in the huge tureen it had arrived in some hours ago. It was piping hot. It wouldn't dare be otherwise. Maybe he could spoon-feed it to the angel. But then it might scald his mouth and spill everywhere. How did humans manage marriage and lust and things without flying apart every day?

"Crowley." Aziraphale's voice could be like golden velvet when he chose, warm and heavy and comforting. _Do not be afraid_.

"What?"

"You don't have to try so hard. This isn't like you. All the attention was sweet at first. Now it's just exhausting." His full lip caught under sharp pearly teeth. Lip-biting wasn't fair play at all, not so soon after the kiss and the grapefruit. "I want my obnoxious, annoying demon back. If you want something from me, then ask."

Maybe it was the _my_ demon, even with insults inserted in the middle, that sent the words tumbling out of Crowley's mouth. "Why did you kiss me? You never kiss me."

"I thought it might reassure you. I'm not hurt or put out anymore. My Arrangement with you takes priority over any other. And." Aziraphale fidgeted with his napkin. "I know you don't like me saying things like this, and I know we wouldn't have chosen each other's company if we weren't forced together by work, but I have become fond of you. Oh dear, this is terribly uncomfortable."

There was just so much in the speech that stung. Crowley took off his dark spectacles and flung them on the table, the better to glare. "You want me to ask what I want of you," he said flatly.

"Wouldn't that be simpler?"

Crowley opened his mouth to say something crude, something unforgivable, something that would send the bloody heartless perfect angel scurrying out of his flat and end this farce completely. Something to break this impenetrable wall of calm.

_Next thing, Aziraphale is so distracted and flustered that I had to ask him three times to check my figures on impalement rates._

There was no sign that Aziraphale was flustered or nervous, let alone yearning. Yet here he was. And he had kissed Crowley. There had to be a less intimate means of reassurance. Aziraphale had blushed in the theatre.

"I want to know exactly what I mean to you," Crowley said.

Aziraphale blinked owlishly from behind his glasses. "Don't you know?"

"Obviously not."

"I suppose that's apparent." Aziraphale fidgeted with the stem of his glass. "Do you remember being guests at Scipio and Aemilia's wedding?"

Crowley blinked. "No."

"No. I suppose not. You were very inebriated. I've rarely seen you that drunk, and you didn't seem to remember it when you finally woke up a fortnight later. I was supposed to be ensuring they had a happy and fruitful marriage, and you said a wedding feast was a good time to spread sin and indulgence, and really I suppose I wanted to try the wedding spelt cake. The wine was very good."

"Wait, I suppose I do remember a bit, now you mention the cake." Something was nagging at Crowley. Something important.

"It was a _confarreatio_ wedding1. Difficult to dissolve. Like our rivalry and partnership, you said. Stuck together, thick and thin, through the centuries, even if we hate each other's guts. So I told you I don't hate you, Crowley. Quite the opposite."

"So that's it? You don't hate me?" There was a sick sense of disappointment in his stomach.

"Oh dear, this is _very_ awkward." Aziraphale reached into the inside of his jacket and removed a muslin bag. From it, he removed two rings, one of beaten gold and one of iron. They bore designs of intertwined hands, and for all their age, showed no signs of dimmed brightness, as if someone had polished them for every day through hundreds of years. They were too small for Aziraphale's plump fingers.

Crowley blinked at them. "Are you trying to tell me those are Aemilia's betrothal rings?2 Why are you carrying them around?"

"Oh, they're not Aemilia's. They're yours. I was just keeping them for you after you left them behind. You might as well take them now."

Crowley extended his hand in a daze, and Aziraphale tipped the rings into them. The angel's cheeks were very pink, and he seemed wary of touching Crowley's skin.

"When it comes right down to it, Crowley, what you are to me is my betrothed husband."

1 Very legally serious Ancient Roman wedding, not like the fairly easy to divorce normal style of wedding. Usually only available to patricians, and requiring ten important witnesses. ↩

2 The iron ring would be to wear in private, to symbolise enduring strength. The gold ring would be to flash around in public to show how rich you were. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Kylie title is from _At Christmas_.


	6. Neverending starts tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Were you planning to remind me we're promised any century soon?"
> 
> "I was going to tell you eventually if it came up. It never really seemed to be the right moment before." Aziraphale turned his soup spoon over and over, as if seeking an answer to the situation in his reversed reflection.
> 
> "There wasn't one right moment in two thousand years?"
> 
> "It does seem rather a long time when you put it that way."

Crowley stared at the rings in his hands. They did look like they would fit him. Skinny fingers, serpent nature. He slid them both on, one on each hand, to see how they looked. They were bulky and fairly crudely made and beautiful, they were absolutely beautiful, he never thought iron could have a magical lustre like that, that gold could remind him of earthly sunshine instead of the frankly ostentatious streets of gold in Heaven. He was never going to take them off, custom be blessed.

"What about you?" Crowley asked, dazed. "Or was I too selfish to get you betrothal rings?"

"Oh, I kept mine too. Didn't seem quite right, to wear them when you weren't wearing yours." Aziraphale made no move to produce them.

"Were you planning to remind me we're promised any century soon?"

"I was going to tell you eventually if it came up. It never really seemed to be the right moment before." Aziraphale turned his soup spoon over and over, as if seeking an answer to the situation in his reversed reflection.

"There wasn't one right moment in two thousand years?"

"It does seem rather a long time when you put it that way." Aziraphale's brows drew together over his spectacles. "You seemed determined not to mention it, and never showed any signs of, er, romantic inclination towards me after that one time. In any case, it's hardly my fault that you're so touchy. You try tiptoeing around a highly-strung demon's moods for millennia."

Crowley was about to point out how unfair this was, how very little it took to make Aziraphale sniff and go cold for weeks or years, but the back of his mind was desperately sorting through the options. "Did we, um, er, consummate?"

Crowley didn't dare look at Aziraphale, and he suspected Aziraphale was also looking at the spoon to avoid looking at him. Crowley stared at the clock and pretended to be very interested in it. Surely he wouldn't have forgotten if they'd had carnal relations. Surely. It was hard to believe he had forgotten anything at all.

Suspicion flickered for just a moment. Crowley had only been consciously aware for a couple of days of things like the dimples on the back of Aziraphale's hands and the exact pattern of the laugh lines around his eyes, and he was pretty sure he would never stop thinking about them now. Let alone forget the soft warm feel of the back of Aziraphale's hand against his lips or even more so the yielding feel of Azirpahale's actual lips against his. But Aziraphale wouldn't lie, not about something _big_ like this. "Angel? Did we?"

"No," said Aziraphale.

"Why not?" Crowley demanded, mind still on kissing. Had he had some kind of supernatural self-control back then?

"We were highly inebriated," Aziraphale said primly. "As I recall, you told me in great detail what you planned to do with me when you sobered up. To be quite honest it was all highly imaginative. I wasn't sure how we were supposed to manage some of your plans without some extremely dubious miracles. And then you passed out. Er."

Crowley groaned with humiliation, and let his head fall into his hands. "Tell me I at least managed to kiss you properly?" There was an embarrassed silence. "Oh, Satan."

"I'm rather glad you didn't," Aziraphale said, sharply. "I would hate it if our first real kiss was something you didn't even remember."

Crowley sat bolt upright, as if electricity had been shot through him. So Aziraphale thought the same about that. Aziraphale had kissed him, with all these memories of them getting sentimental enough to promise marriage to each other. Memories of Crowley getting amorous enough to say all sorts of embarrassing and revealing things. And instead of kissing his angel's breath out in return, Crowley had just spilled cocktails everywhere and bolted his appetiser. No wonder Aziraphale was ill at ease. "Oh. Yeah."

Aziraphale said gently: "It's up to you, of course. It's not like there's anyone around to perform a _confarreatio_ marriage these days. It all comes down to an intent to live in conjugal affection or not, under the old rules. If you don't want to be married, well, that's that, and I hope we will continue our Arrangement and our friendship. It's only that since your, er, nap, you seem to have been, well. . ." Aziraphale's composure was suddenly showing cracks. "I mean, the fruit, and kissing my hand, and the dinner and theatre, and some of the things you said and the way you looked. . . Of course, I may have misunderstood. I probably did. Oh, dear, this really is a mistake. Thank you for the offer of lunch, but I shouldn't have left the shop unsupervised so long in the middle of the day." He shifted in his seat, prepared to rise.

"_Don't go anywhere._" Sometimes Crowley could move swift as a snake. The serpent remnants of him. He was around the table, his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, preventing him from leaving the chair. "What do you think the shop will get up to unsupervised?"

"Well, there's a lot of books, and a lot of magic soaked into it over the years. Can't be too careful."

"What you _can't_ do is drop all this on me and leave, angel." His hands were trembling. Aziraphale could have thrown the grip off in a second if he wanted. "You wanted to know if the old flame was burning again?"

Aziraphale delicately chewed on his lower lip, and Crowley was conscious of an overwhelming desire to bite it himself, and then soothe it with his tongue. "I suppose I did wonder. Hoped really. They say that a drunken mouth speaks the heart's meaning, but you never suggested anything of the sort again. I didn't want to lose what we have," he added, with unusual frankness. "Until you vanished for nearly a century. When you came back, I was -- I was very pleased to see you again. Well, I was angry and hurt that you worried me by disappearing, but yes, very pleased indeed."

"You thought I came back to court you again. Sober and knowingly this time." Aziraphale inclined his head slightly. "Good." Crowley took a deep breath, feeling it hiss over his teeth. "Because I _am_ courting you."

Aziraphale's composure broke at last, at least as much as it ever did. "Oh." The syllable hovered in the air between them, as significant as a trumpet blast.

It occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale had all but confessed to wanting to be his husband, Crowley was wearing bloody betrothal rings for Hell's sake, and he was standing there like a stuffed frog instead of the serpent and tempter of Eden. He pushed Aziraphale's chair away from the table with preternatural strength, slid onto Aziraphale's lap -- and oh it was as perfect as he had imagined, thighs to live out an existence on -- and kissed him.

Crowley was apparently not as good at initiating kisses as Aziraphale was, because their noses clashed and Aziraphale's spectacles got in the way and their lips kind of mashed together over their lips. It didn't matter at all because Aziraphale chuckled, the most delightful joyful sound, and put one strong plump hand at the nape of Crowley's neck, changing the angle. Then, oh and then their faces and mouths fit together, their lips clung and Crowley's blackened heart tried to leap out both his ears simultaneously. Aziraphale made a noise that was not a chuckle and Crowley could have sworn the water on the table was turning to wine and the lights were flaring brighter.

Everything in the universe came down to points of contact, the hand that was on the back of Crowley's head, now, the arm going around his back, the feel of the layers of their clothes pressed together at their chests, the lap beneath him, the round cheeks under his palms. But most of all their mouths, the lips pulling and pressing, and why did it feel like that? It was just a small touch really, yet it consumed everything.

Aziraphale made a sound into Crowley's mouth, a sigh and gasp all at once, and somehow that sent desire thrilling through an entirely different part of Crowley. He pressed forward with tongue and hips, and everything was both soft and sharp and definitely hardening all at once. His hands on Aziraphale's cheeks could measure the movement of the angel's jaw and lips and tongue as he returned the kiss, as he kissed him, kissed a _demon_ as if it was the most wonderful thing to do in all the world.

"Angel," Crowley whispered into Aziraphale's mouth when their tongues, at least, parted. "_My_ angel?"

"I suppose I always have been."

"Aziraphale, I -- Oh, I can't. . ."

"You don't have to say it. I can love enough for both of us." Aziraphale rubbed the back of Crowley's neck, soothingly.

"But I _do_."

"I know, dear."

Crowley surged forward for another kiss, and then drew back. "Oh, fuck."

"I suppose there's no reason not to. It has been two thousand years of waiting." Aziraphale's tone was light, but there was something deep and yearning under it, something that suggested his calm acceptance had only been on the surface, and that he _wanted,_ had been wanting. "My beautiful boy," he said, as if he meant it, as if Crowley was something deliriously lovely and not an awkward ancient serpentine thing.

"No, I mean, we shouldn't do this."

"I assure you we should." Aziraphale kissed his cheek. "It's not like anyone pays particular attention to me these days, as long as I file my reports."

"Dagon."

"Oh, you're right, of course, but I was hardly intending to tell them about any of this. I'm not a fool, Crowley. Except perhaps for you." Aziraphale trailed kisses down Crowley's cheek to his jaw, which made sparks go off behind Crowley's eyes and made it almost impossible to keep track of his thoughts. How did humans _bear_ this much intensity? But he had to think, he had to, because Aziraphale certainly wasn't thinking with his brain or he wouldn't be kissing a demon in the first place. Crowley had started all this and he had to keep Aziraphale safe.

"I mean the problem is my lot, not yours. Dagon told me to seduce you."

It was like a shutter falling over Aziraphale's light. One moment, he had been all desire and tenderness and soft warmth, and now he was cold and rigid. "Did they?"

"Yes. This morning," Crowley said wretchedly. He didn't release his grasp on Aziraphale's face or the legs pressing against rounded hips, so it made no sense that he felt miles away.

"So I suppose you decided, for once in your demonic career, to do your infernal duty. I hope it hasn't been too unpleasant so far."

"Oh, shut up. You can't possibly think -- betrothed husband, remember?" He moved his hands down to push themselves between Aziraphale and the back of the chair, hold him tight, buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. "And you are sublime and gorgeous but we really need to talk about what's going on."

"Yes. Yes, we do. Crowley, why would Dagon _possibly_ order you to seduce me? It's not your usual field of work, is it? Not that I'm not saying you're not utterly charming from my point of view, dear boy, but ordinary humans --"

"_Please_ shut up before I die of mortification. And I don't do the incubus thing, no. Too messy. What do you say to Dagon about me?"

"Absolutely nothing. We don't exchange sensitive information about classified work."

"Huh. Why did you tell them you summoned them?"

"I told them I stumbled on an evocation and was testing it in order to destroy it if it worked, to stop humans endangering their souls. We had a nice chat." Crowley wondered for a moment what a lnice chat with Dagon would entail, and put the thought out of his head immediately. "I joked that if I _was_ going to summon a demon, Dagon was just the one I would choose, because understanding my lease was beyond me. So they offered to make a deal and have a look over it."

"Aziraphale, you can't go around making verbal contracts with demons! Haven't you heard about making deals with the devil?"

"On the contrary, I make deals with you all the time. I didn't offer them my soul to read over my lease, dear heart. I just offered to check some reports for them."

Dear heart. Well, Crowley was straddling Aziraphale's lap and he supposed they were betrothed now, or again, and he could cope with a new endearment. He hid his blushes against Aziraphale's shoulder. "How did you do the summoning? I hope you didn't use the _Goetica_ and bind the triangle with Michael's name. I really don't want an archangel asking why you chat with demons, _especially_ me. Besides, I'm not that keen on you sticking my sigil in a box of smelly stuff just so you can boss me around more than usual. Blessed King Solomon and his blessed Temple, excuse my French. Do I _look_ like a builder?"

"I know that's a painful memory for you, dear."

"I mean Hell is bad enough, all that sulphur smelling like rotten eggs, but at least it's not dead animals and old sweat and whatever else he stuffed in that thing."

"I wouldn't do that to you, Crowley. No, it was quite a pleasant ritual. Offering bowl and candles in your favourite colour, with some of your favourite foods -- do you know how difficult it is to get honeyed dormice these days? -- and some of my, well, tears." Crowley opened his mouth, and Aziraphale said firmly, "_Hush._ I had to guess at your favourite incense, but black and orange were a safe guess for your colours. And lilies. I know you love lilies."

"Huh," said Crowley, trying not to show how touched he was. "What incense did you use? That might have caused some of the confusion, although Dagon is more about the seafood and bread products than dormice."

"Storax."1

Crowley was oddly pleased. "Yeah, that should work. How did you know?"

Aziraphale huffed a bit. "I know how you smell. Like... leather and dusty flowers and balm. Storax."

"Oh, _angel_," said Crowley, and was about to tell Aziraphale all the wonderful things _he_ smelled like, but caught himself in time. "Yeah. Yeah, that works. What else?"

"I used your name. Your real one. Wrote your sigil very carefully in my most beautiful ink and said it three times, asking for your help in reconciling enemies to friends. That was your original realm, wasn't it?"

"You said my name."

"Well, yes. It was necessary."

"Fuck," Crowley said feelingly. "Well, they knew you were summoning me, all right. I suppose because I was indisposed, the request went up the chain, and you got my line manager. And the bastard just... came and didn't let you know. _In the name of reconciling enemies to friends._ So you got yourself a friendly enemy _fish god_ who knew you wanted to be closer to me. And you befriended them!"

Aziraphale sniffed. "It's a bit late in the day to get obstreperous with me for befriending demons. Especially while you're sitting on my lap, _husband_."

At that word Crowley gave up trying to reproach him and kissed him instead, and for another long moment there was nothing but the magic of touching tongues and lips, the frustration of knowing there was soft angelic warmth hidden under crisp clothes.

"Why did you keep summoning them?" he asked at last, playing with Aziraphale's cravat, wishing he trusted himself to undo it and kiss the broad neck he remembered.

"They seemed, I don't know, lonely. I was sorry for them."

"Angel, you're very sweet, but loneliness is not an emotion I associate with my bosses. Especially Dagon."

"Why not? You get lonely, don't you?" Aziraphale asked, sharply, and Crowley faltered. _Well, yes,_ was the answer. * Every time I'm parted from you for too long.* It wasn't necessary to sacrifice his dignity and say so. "Dagon is as much angel stock as you are, and _I_ was certainly lonely without you."

Crowley had an impulse to apologise. He quashed it. "Next time I oversleep, you know where to find me." He let his fingers work on the elaborate knot of the cravat this time, loosen it and remove the pin, setting it carefully on the table. Aziraphale's gaze on him was bright blue and alert, his barrel chest barely moving with his breath. "You're welcome in my bedroom at any time."

"I thought you wanted to stop."

Crowley shrugged and nipped Azirpahale's bottom lip lightly between his teeth. It was even more fascinating than he had imagined it would be, and he wanted to do it again. "It would be wise. But you're the wise one. I'm just cunning."

Aziraphale chuckled again, and the chuckle was richer and sweeter and more intoxicating than any chocolate cocktail could ever be. He pulled Crowley even closer, and the demon didn't have it in him to think about Dagon any more.

Anything but Aziraphale could wait.

1 I am using Botis's qualities for Crowley because hey, why change what works? Botis's realms include friendship and making friends of rivals. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being rude in English hasn't changed much over the centuries. People told each other to fuck off, go fuck themselves and shut up way before you would think.
> 
> Most of the demonology is from the _Minor Key of Solomon_, but also from interviews with contemporary demonologists who think invoking Michael and Jehovah and binding demons is simply rude, and you should just offer them their favourite things and ask nicely for what you want instead. Seems far more like Aziraphale.
> 
> Love you still being here, love your support.
> 
> Chapter title from _The One_ by Kylie.


	7. Pillow Talk in the Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has to be some reason Crowley can't remember what went on in Rome. Perhaps Hell's archives have a clue.

What followed when an angel decided not to be wise was, Crowley decided, rather wonderful. Messy, yes, but not as unpleasant that way as he might have feared. Distinctly uncomfortable at times. He also might have become a little tearful at one point. But all in all it had been the most spectacular, wonderful experience he had ever had in this fascinating, marvellous, perfect world.

Any illusions he had about being the seducer and tempter of an innocent angel had been dispelled quite quickly. Now, cradled against a soft warm chest and feeling bathed in Aziraphale's love, he pointed that out, rather reprovingly.

"Well, my dear, I've had two thousand years to speculate about it," Aziraphale pointed out reasonably.

"Even so, some of the things you did or asked me to do were unexpected."

"You didn't seem to mind."

"Satan, no, of course not. I was just surprised."

"I don't see why. After all, they were your idea in the first place."

"Angel, how could they be?"

"My dear. I know you've been to an orgy or two, spreading temptation in your time."

"Well, true, but I didn't watch the results. I closed my eyes until I could leave. So sticky."

Aziraphale laughed, his belly shaking in a way that meant Crowley had to stroke it to feel the delicious tremors. "I utterly adore you," said Aziraphale, which was a little too close to being called utterly adorable for comfort. Crowley was feeling too uninfernally blissful to mind too much. He'd do some chaos spreading later to balance the books a bit.

"I know you've always been quite squeamish, beloved, but really, you must have picked up more than you realised."

"Huh." He tried to sound both doubtful about the orgies and annoyed at the endearment. Somehow it came out contented and fond. And sleepy. Apparently sleep after fu -- after lo -- after _that_ was as tempting as sleeping after a good meal

Thinking of which, they hadn't made it far through his elegantly planned meal. Although Aziraphale had certainly swallowed -- Crowley his blush against Aziraphale's chest.

"Lunch," Crowley said.

"Now? Really?"

"I spent ages putting in the order to the restaurant. You're not getting away with half a grapefruit and a spoon of clear soup."

"Ordered with your own fair hands."

"Oh, shut it," he grinned. "Didn't know it was going to be a wedding breakfast, or I would have included honeyed dormice." Oh, heavens, the honeyed dormice. He wasn't going to go through the rest of existence being sentimental over Aziraphale remembering he loved honeyed dormice. Of course Crowley did. He was a serpent. Nothing special about it.

"It was only supposed to be a seduction anyway."

"Well, you seduced me properly. Well done," Aziraphale said encouragingly.

Crowley glared at him.

"Don't look at me like so ferociously, Crowley. You're still wearing your rings."

Crowley lifted his hands, admired the iron on one and the gold on the other. "Where are yours?" he demanded, glowering more.

Aziraphale smiled and lifted his hands, rings glinting. Crowley seized the one closest to him, the one with the iron ring, and kissed it. It wasn't like anyone but Aziraphale would ever know.

He managed to serve the next few bits of luncheon without further mishap, now he wasn't quite so on edge. He ate the timbales and beef and potatoes mechanically, fascinated by Aziraphale's plump hands and prim mouth even more now that he knew... Things.

In the middle of the salad course, he said abruptly, "I don't think I would have forgotten. Aziraphale. I couldn't have. Not you."

A flicker of pain crossed the angel's face. "I beg to differ."

"Sweetheart, don't look like that." Oh no, he had actually called Aziraphale that out of bed. He couldn't snatch it back now, not with Aziraphale's eyes sparkling like that behind his spectacles, his cheeks glowing. "The whole story doesn't make sense."

"You don't think you would have plighted your troth to me?"

Crowley heard the hurt behind the prissy tones, and reached blindly out for Aziraphale's hand. "No, no, that part is fine. The moment I thought you c-c-cared I would've been all for it." He forced the undemonlike word out, because being given a packed sandwich had been enough to set him wooing Aziraphale in earnest. That was too humiliating to remind himself about. "Nah, marrying you is fine. It's the forgetting. I don't think I could forget --" he detached his hand from angel long enough to wave it expressively, trying to take in the awareness of being loved and desired by Aziraphale, "this. You."

Aziraphale was quiet a moment. "I did wonder often if you had been made to forget."

Crowley stiffened. "If that's true, I'll find the bastards and make them pay. Two thousand bloody years, angel, I'm so sorry."

"I wasn't unhappy, except at first. After all, I knew you were capable of feeling for me, even if you panicked and tried to keep it hidden. That was -- that was a lot, my Crowley. I didn't suffer until this last century."

"Satan, Aziraphale, sorry." Crowley was sniffling again. _My Crowley._ He should hate it, but he wanted to hear it over and over.

"Darling. It was worth it. Come up here."

Crowley lifted his head and was kissed again, and worrying about it all was lost in the glory of knowing Aziraphale loved him.

* * *

After luncheon Aziraphale said he needed to check his shop. Crowley realised with a painful pull that while they were married by dint of intending to spend their lives together in marriage, neither of them had any real idea what that meant. Bookshop or flat? Somewhere else? Did they actually have to live together at all? It was all unknown territory.

It could wait. Crowley needed some time to work out exactly what kind of steaming pile of dung he had dragged them both into, and what it had to do with Rome.

Crowley couldn't have felt that warm assurance of angelic love and forgotten it. Aziraphale was an _angel_. Once he stopped cloaking the love behind his natural pettiness and fussiness, poor bastard, it did a fairly terrifying thing of winding around Crowley's soul and it couldn't just be forgotten like that. Even if Crowley had forgotten anything else, he was sure a love like that would leave scars. And all those particular scars were new.

Alcohol would do that. Demonic intervention, maybe. He just wasn't sure. And the last person he was going to ask about it right now was Dagon.

Time to call in some favours, he supposed. He sighed and sank through the floor, ending up, not in the flat below, but in a cramped and mouldering office.

"Bloody heaven, Crowley, you could knock," Adromalech said, knocking over an inkwell of imp acid. A pile of papers vanished in crumbling smoke. Andromalech waved a huge bronzed hand and the papers reformed.

"That wouldn't be very demonic, would it? Following orders and all."

"Don't be a wanker. You know we're supposed to follow Their orders."

Crowley started to pull rank, then remembered he was there for a favour, and adjusted his features into his most charming, friendly smile instead.

Adromalech's annoyingly handsome forehead creased in a frown. "Don't fucking leer at me like that, snake, or I'm reporting you to Dagon. You know there's no torments without their permission."

"Sorry, friend. I was just here to call in a favour as a fellow team member."

"You can call in all you like, Crowley, but it's a contract or nothing, you know the rules. Not worth my pitchfork if Dagon catches me giving out free favours."

"All right, all right. It's a few simple questions. About rules. The ones we don't break."

"All right," Adromalech said cautiously. "And you're offering?"

"Brandy. You're going to love it. Clever humans. Like drinking hellfire but without your gizzards frying. Much. Come on, you know it's hopeless trying to get a decent drink down here. I'll get you the good stuff."

"How much?"

"A bottle a question."

"Only if I have the right to refuse the deal after hearing questions. Don't trust you as far as I can throw you. More to the point, don't trust you as far as you could throw _me_, which isn't very far at all."

"Fine, fine. Shake."

They did, snake and peacock sigils arising from their linked hands and making one joined sigil, flaming as the contract was sealed.

"All right." Crowley had to choose his questions carefully. Adromalech wasn't particularly devious or mean-natured, but there were certain things demons just had to do, and taking advantage of contracts was one of them. "First of all, if a demon contracts a marriage or betrothal, does it go on our records?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Two questions. Himself likes to know, keeps track of the demon brides and which ones get real estate down here and if there's any cambions. By the way, could you be any more fucking tactless? You know what I Fell for."

"Well, there are advantages to being a demon over an angel. Should be grateful. Himself is all for creating monster babies." Crowley took a deep breath. "Are there any records of marriage or betrothal for me?"

"Stone the fucking crows, Crowley, don't you _know_?"

"I take it that you're trading a question for a question."

"Forget it. Booze only. I'll check the files and get back to you. Anything else?"

"Memory wipes. Performed on me. About two thousand years ago."

"Yeah nah, if I'm going that deep into the archives, you're giving me two bottles for it. There's loogaroos back there. And if you want to know what they are, it will cost you another bottle."1

"Okay, deal, get the answer for me. I'm wanted back on the surface."

As he rose up, he heard a mocking "I'm sure you are. Say hello to your angel."

"_What_?" But Crowley was already back in his flat, hissing like an overboiled pot in his shock.

When he came to himself a bit, Crowley banished the flowers on the table to Aziraphale's bookshop, and walked across the river -- by bridge, he wasn't any kind of angel these days -- rather than taking a carriage. He presumed Aziraphale would take a sudden arrival of flowers as a sign that he should shut up shop and expect an assignation with his new husband, and the walk might clear the demon's chaotic head.

Hell would have information that he was married by now, if he hadn't been before. Mind you, if it was buried in the files, it would probably never come out. Unless someone was taking an interest in him. Or Aziraphale.

_Say hello to your angel._

He couldn't understand why. Sure, he had briefly been a pretty big deal in the old days, over that Apple business, but he had kept his head down since, doing enough not to arouse suspicion and not enough to make himself seem a threat to the more ambitious denizens of Hell. Aziraphale had not been given any role of great authority since the whole Apple business himself. It couldn't be just about them. Crowley could feel something behind all this, something big, and he wasn't sure what.

None of his speculations were particularly pleasant.

There was a hissing sound as he crossed the Thames, and Crowley held out a hand. Three sheets of paper drifted down on peacock feathers, and landed in his outstretched palm, slightly singeing him. Good old Adromalech, would do anything for booze. Crowley read them, then flung the notes out over the frozen water, watching them flame before they hit the ice.

He pushed his glasses down his nose and ground his knuckles into his aching eyes. Bloody Hell. What the Heaven was he going to do about it? He felt like laughing, or crying, or throwing up.

Focus. He needed to focus. He wasn't bloody going to lose Aziraphale, not after that night, not with the new deep, beautiful scars of love on his soul. He would fight with wits and arrogance, if they were the only weapons he had. And looks. Of course. He was extremely handsome, and he needed to remember that.

The shop was closed and locked when he arrived. That could mean Aziraphale had noticed the roses arriving and drawn conclusions, or it could just mean that Aziraphale wasn't in the mood for humans around his books. Crowley pushed open the door, ignoring the locks, and stepped inside.

"Aziraphale?" he called out, his voice low in the padded cushions of books and paper. "You here?"

No response. Crowley checked among the shelves and the backroom, dreadful certainty rising. Nothing. Of course, Aziraphale might be out. Doing good or something to make up for having spent a decent part of the afternoon committing fornication with a demon. Crowley reached tentatively out to seek the familiar aura. No, Aziraphale was close. And worried.

Better bite the blessed arrow.

Crowley climbed up the stairs and opened the top room.

Dagon's back was turned to him, bent over their desk, to all accounts hard at work in the cosy office. Nothing like Hell, this atmosphere of firelight and polished wood and cosy rugs and books instead of rotting, imp-haunted files. Aziraphale was opposite, bent over his own work, showing nothing to give away that he'd noticed Crowley's arrival. Brilliant actor, the angel, when he needed to be.

A bit of a wasted effort this time.

Crowley strolled across into Dagon's view, wrapped his arms possessively around Aziraphale's shoulders, and covered up his terror and fury with his most annoying smirk.

"Come here to report success in seducing your husband, my lord. Now tell me what this fucking game is all about."

Aziraphale's shoulders stiffened in shock. Dagon threw back their head, and their sharp rows of teeth glinted in the firelight as they laughed and laughed and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _Secrets_.
> 
> Hey, surprise Adromalech. XD This one probably wasn't tempted into falling by Crowley's bright suggestions about cute human women.


	8. I think we know the score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's not the sex," Dagon said. "It's the adultery."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! It has been a hell of a hiatus, I know. I'm not gone, out of love with the fandom or writer's blocked, just busy. 
> 
> Happy 30th Anniversary. I have officially shipped these boys for three decades.

"There has to be some mistake." Azirphale was making a good imitation of the firm tone of voice he used when failing to sell a book to an customer. Unfortunately, Crowley knew enough to detect the faint waver of uncertainty in it. Aziraphale was not stupid; far from it. That angelic brain would be fitting things together fast behind those guileless eyes.

"There's a mistake, all right. The mistake of any demon thinking they can trick _my_ angel into marriage and get away with it," Crowley said, casting all caution to the wind. It was clearly useless pretending there was nothing between them now.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about _your_ precious little hurt feelings, snake," Dagon said kindly. "After all, you convinced an angel into adultery. Been ages since an angel has fallen for something like that. Might get a promotion."

Aziraphale's shoulders were stiff. Crowley tried to cuddle them into relaxation while giving Dagon the impression that he was just holding on possessively. He wasn't sure how successful he was. "You told me that if he had sssex for love, he was ssssafe," he hissed. "You don't lie to a fellow demon. It's the code."

"What makes you think I lied?" Dagon was smiling with all their teeth.

"He lovesss me. He'sss fine." Bless, he really couldn't control his hissing. It was humiliating. "Bugger off back to Hell."

"It's not the sex," Dagon said, with an air of kindly explaining things to a rather backwards imp. "It's the adultery."

"It can't be that bad. He hasssn't fallen."

"Not yet." How could they possibly fit so many teeth into their mouth? "I suppose Heaven hasn't noticed yet. It might take an official complaint, say, from a wronged spouse. I wonder what Heaven would think about an angel that marries one demon and buggers another?"

The ugly word, oddly, let Crowley get himself back under control a little. It seemed so sordid, so unlike what they had done which was so glorious, so incandescent, so — well, messy and clumsy and a bit painful, really, but still utterly beautiful and perfect. Hearing it described as _buggery_ in Dagon's fishlike mouth was like a sharp separation between Aziraphale and Dagon. Aziraphale was beautiful and abundant and generous and —

Not Heavenly. Well, literally and figuratively Heavenly. But also of Earth, and all that was good and worthwhile about this blessed planet. Warm and clever and generous and abundant and a pain in the arse, again both literally and figuratively, and all the more precious and real for it. Love. Not cold transcendent Heavenly love. Kisses and embraces and mess and getting drunk together and having small quarrels and making it up.

No one who had spent most of their existence in Hell would understand Aziraphale at all.

"Aziraphale didn't consent to marry _you_. As far as he was concerned, he was with his own husband." If Crowley let go of Aziraphale's shoulders for a moment, he would do something stupid like resume serpent form and try to get into the circle to strike an Underduke. "You've never even consummated the marriage. It's invalid. Even those righteous idiots of angels will understand that he's been tricked."

"Since when has consent been a prerequisite of marriage? You seem so sure. Your fat angel isn't, though, is he?"

"Aziraphale. Tell them. You're not married to them, you're mine."

"It would be nice to think Heaven would understand," Aziraphale said unsteadily, "but experience would suggest that they might, as it were, smite first and listen later. The circumstantial evidence is rather, ah, condemning."

"It bloody is not. You saw him once two thousand years ago, and we've... Oh."

"How long do you suppose we admit to having our Arrangement, offhand?" Aziraphale asked gently.

"At least, though, we can argue that you haven't been seeing Dagon, have you? Funny marriage."

"There are worse marriages. We spend a lot of time together, helping each other with our problems. I've been here every day for the last few decades, having intimate little tête-à-têtes. While you, my _dear_ serpent, have been nowhere near the poor neglected angel until you turned up a few days ago and tempted him into mortal sin."

Crowley felt a flash of jealousy and ruthlessly snuffed it. It was an old Hell trick, after all. Get in someone's head. He _knew_ what he meant to Aziraphale now, and even a sneaky bastard like Dagon couldn't get at him that way. And it was equally unthinkable that Dagon could be anything described as madly in love with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale straightened a little. "But I've kept you trapped in the summoning circle. Surely, if you were my spouse, I would want to be with you. Instead, you can't leave." He smiled smugly and folded his hands over his stomach.

Crowley groaned. "Angel, the problem with human grimoires is that they treat things as rules when they are more like, well."

"Suggestions," Dagon finished and stepped neatly out of the circle.

"Thing with summoning is, we don't _have_ to respond to them," Crowley explained. He would have passed a and over his forehead, only that would have involved letting go of Aziraphale. "And we'd be pretty stupid to turn up if we actually would be under human power. Corruption-wise, though, it's free money. Demon summoners are practically begging to walk into Hell. Unpleasant lot, most of them."

"Besides," Dagon said, "it's so much fun to give them exactly what they ask for in exactly the way they least want." They smiled. "Like a lonely angel, wishing for demonic company, and getting what, if not who, he longed for."

"Oh, well," Aziraphale sighed. "Can't be helped. Would you like some tea while we drink this over?"

"Only if Crowley sips from my cup first. No holy water tricks, angel."

"Wouldn't dream of it. It would make such a mess, and I'm rather fond of this bookshop. I just find tea so soothing, don't you? Coffee never had the same effect."

"I like coffee," grumbled Crowley, reluctantly allowing Aziraphale to stand. It would be pathetic to cling to him in front of Dagon, and besides, he still had to be ready to fight in case Aziraphale was directly threatened.

"Of course you do, dearest. It's a vice. But I'm afraid I only have tea. I still haven't learned to use your remarkable contraption, and coffee houses are not what they once were." Aziraphale filled a kettle and set it on the stove. "What I don't understand, my dear Dagon, is what you get from this. I enjoy your company well enough, but I don't flatter myself that you've been cherishing a burning passion for me since a party two millennia ago. I must admit, though, I'm impressed. Crowley barely maintains focus on any project for a couple of months."

Crowley scowled.

"It hardly took focus. No, a bright young demon had just noticed a few discrepancies in Crowley's reports. Things he apparently accomplished while in entirely different places. Lots of action, few results, and all put down to the machinations of the wily and powerful former Guardian of the East Gate. So I turned up when he was at a wedding, and what do I see but him drunk and sitting half across the lap of that same angel, feeding him slices of pear. So interesting."

Aziraphale gave Crowley a guilty look, and Crowley blushed. He had thought they had been so _subtle_ about their little cooperations and any emerging socialisation. It hadn't even been a formal Arrangement back in those days. And he couldn't help it if Aziraphale had such a comfortable lap, or opened his mouth so prettily for food. It had been a useful distraction. No one would think they were plotting about the eternal war for human souls while they were hand-feeding each other.

"I decided to find out just how deep things went and how much influence Crowley had over this angel. As it turned out, enough to have him marry him and be ready to consummate on the spot. Really, Crowley, I was impressed. Never thought you had the corporation for an incubus."

"You didn't consummate, though," Crowley said. "Right?" He hated the edge to his voice.

"Nah. No offence, angel, and you know I've become terribly fond of you, but corpulent members of the heavenly host are not my type."

Crowley bristled at the _angel_. "I've heard that fish prefer to eat flies," he muttered.

"What was that, snake?"

"Nothing."

"If you're fond of me, then why such an absurdly long drawn-out attempt to destroy me?" Aziraphale carefully measured the tea into the warmed teapot. "I'd be flattered if I understood it. I'm afraid I'm very small fry in Heaven these days."

"It's not about destroying you, except as a last recourse." Dagon patted his back reassuringly, and Crowley tried not to bite them. "It's about all three of us knowing I can whenever I want to. An angel under my sway, and a Principality stationed on Earth at that. And the Serpent himself. I have great things in mind for the future.."

Aziraphale poured the tea. His voice was calm and pleasant. "What kind of things?"

"Oh, bits and pieces. I might call in a favour from you in a few centuries. Great things are afoot, my friend, and it might be nice to have your assistance, or at least your non-interference. It involves you, too, Crowley."

"_How_?"

But Dagon had stepped back into the circle, and was gone, cup of tea in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just for people who want to know how I'm going personally and how my writing is doing.
> 
> 1) Health is MUCH improved. I can write without falling asleep every few hundred words, yay! OTOH I have less 3 am writing spurts. Still migraine prone.
> 
> 2) Lockdown has changed my life fairly little, although I miss libraries and my Mum desperately and love having my wife working from home. I am very lucky to live in South Australia, which has been spared the brunt of the pandemic. My heart goes out to all the rest of you.
> 
> 3) The real reason I have been writing so little fanfic is that I've been concentrating on original writing. My two major projects at the moment are a fudged-history Regency m/m steamy novella, and a full-length contemporary m/m rom-com. Might as well hide in the notes back here that both will be sent out as free author review copies when I'm done, so if you like my brand of fat-positive tropey head over heels in love nonsense, you can sign up [here](https://mailchi.mp/d2c730796317/edenblakearc) and I'll send you a copy when it's good to go.


	9. Destiny has a funny way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale try to adjust to their new reality, while Dagon holds their cards close to their chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Many thanks to EdnaV and Liquid Lyrium for talking through this chapter with me to get clarity on where this is going. I anticipate maybe two or three more chapters of this nonsense.

"I don't suppose you could seek asylum in Hell," Crowley said eventually. The shoulder, the lovely round soft shoulder, under his chin was soaked with humiliating tears and a streak of something looking like a snail trail that he was horrifiedly sure had come from his nose He miracled it all away. "My Side is all for adultery."

"You mean Fall?" said Aziraphale. His tone was calm, but there was a note in it clear and shining as a bell, the note that said _so far and no further._ A temptation here and there, some sensible work to balance out the great cosmic game, a tacit acknowledgement that they were just Sides, but to truly give allegiance to Satan... Crowley knew better than to ask something like that of Aziraphale.

"Sorry. Thoughtless." Aziraphale stroked his back, and Crowley snuggled closer, with a desperate feeling that this might be the last time he got to hold all that lovely abundance in his arms.

As if he heard Crowley's thoughts, Aziraphale said, "If you think I am going to cast you completely away from me like a virtuous heroine in a melodrama, you can put that thought right out of your scaly head."

"Oh, thank fucking—" Crowley sought in his mind for a suitable power. "_You._"

Aziraphale didn't reprove him for his language. "You always did tend towards the dramatic. Obviously, I can't risk further fornication."

"Do _not_ use that word. Not for, for. You know. Us."

"I apologise, my dear. I am devoted to you, and there's no sense in pretending otherwise. I don't see why the Arrangement should not continue, so long as I don't give in to temptation." Aziraphale hesitated. "I think, regarding that, kissing would be unwise."

That was a kick to the gut, and depressingly sensible. Aziraphale had coped with this kind of constant, pained longing for centuries. Crowley could do the same, even if it seemed impossible right now.

"Probably best not to sit on my lap, either," said Aziraphale, and Crowley conceded the point. Aziraphale's lap was entirely too enticing.

"I'm still wearing my rings," he said defiantly. "No rules against jewellery."

"None at all," said Aziraphale quietly, and lifted Crowley's hand to his mouth, kissing where the gold and steel rings gleamed. "My _own_," he said against the lips, and Crowley realised that no matter however still a pond Aziraphale seemed, storms were raging in the depths.

Crowley knew his tongue would fumble if he tried to say all that was in his heart and mind, but all he trusted himself with was, "Fuck Dagon."

"Absolutely not. We are in enough trouble working how to dissolve this thing without a consummation."

Despite himself, Crowley laughed. It was all right. No, not all right, very far from all right. He was desperately in love and Aziraphale loved him and for just one part of one day he had held it all in his hands before it was taken, but...

Aziraphale was still there. Solid and dependable, loyal and loving, and no one's fool. Soft and sharp, sweet and bitter, all at once. Aziraphale was the brains of the Arrangement, Crowley admitted to himself. He wasn't sure how he deserved the love of someone like his angel, but he had it, and surely, in a world in which Aziraphale loved him, winning was only a matter of time. After all, Crowley had survived everything else, no matter close the guillotine blade had seemed. The Heavenly War, Falling, the fourteenth century, bloody Saint Patrick and his herpetophobia, laced leggings. He could survive this, especially with Aziraphale on his side.

"One last kiss?" Crowley asked softly, and Aziraphale's calm expression crumbled. Crowley put a long finger under that soft chin, looked into the beloved face. How had he never realised how much he loved the way Aziraphale's eyebrows were that slightest bit bushy, the delectable curve of the apple of his cheeks? "Last kiss _for now_, darling," Crowley emphasised. "We're not giving up."

"_Never_." The word was a soft breath against Crowley's lips just before it was chased by a soft mouth, the caress of tongue against tongue, slow and loving. Remember this, he told himself. Remember what if feels like to have your angel love you, and to show him how much you love him. The instinctive movements of their lips, clinging and pulling, the warm hand cupping his cheek, the feel of a broad strong back under his arms. This situation would not last forever, but this feeling, this love, would.

That was the thing about being an immortal creature. You had all the time in the world.

* * *

The twentieth century was not so bad. In fact, it was great.

If anyone had asked Crowley what it would be like to have his blackened heart broken, he would—well, he would have denied having a heart in the first place. But he would have assumed it a kind of hellish torment. He wouldn't have realised that, once the initial pain was endured, it wasn't too bad after all.

It was like Falling, in a way. A panicked plunging feeling, a shattering hit, then your metaphorical bones knitted themselves back together and life went on.

Besides, some things were undoubtedly better. Crowley knew for sure that Aziraphale loved him, Aziraphale wanted him, Aziraphale had willingly, eagerly married him, or at least tried to, and there had been things said and done that could not be taken back.

There were the same meetings, the same conversations, but Aziraphale called him _my dear_ and _my own_ more often than _Crowley_ now, and Crowley called him _darling_ whenever he liked. They held hands in theatre audiences and Crowley slumped against his side when they were drinking together. Sometimes when Aziraphale would look at him over his glasses or smile in a particular way, or kiss his wrist, the awareness of steady, intense love would fill Crowley so full of light that his wings itched. As if they were trying to carry him back up to Heaven.

Perish the thought. He would Rise if it gave him half the chance of getting Aziraphale as his husband again, but it would only make things even more complicated if he rediscovered his faith now.

As for Hell, Crowley's career was taking off despite his usual attempts to stay safely middling. He barely had to in the effort to claim credit for anything; it was all heaped at his feet. People were starting to look at Crowley and say, _There's an up and coming demon. Keep an eye out for that one. Fools said his glory days were over after Eden, but look at what he's pulled off since._ Every tragedy or evil of the century resulted in a shining commendation arriving at the Mayfair flat.

And in Hell, whenever they crossed paths, Dagon would smile their sharklike smile, and congratulate him on doing well.

Of course, the twentieth century was a gift to any Earth-bound demon. Motion pictures, radio, television, a dizzying succession of fashion, the most mobile population Earth had ever had. Computers. Electrodes. _Cars_. Looking at a sleek, shining black machine, Crowley wondered if it was possible to have _two_ loves of his existence.

Aziraphale was less keen.

To Crowley's initial furious horror, Aziraphale and Dagon resumed _their_ Arrangement soon after the arrival of the Bentley. Crowley had a wild moment and accused Aziraphale of doing it out of jealousy.

"Don't be ridiculous. I have no intention of being jealous of that infernal hunk of metal, and you have no reason to be jealous of my—"

"Infernal spouse," Crowley said bitterly.

"Crowley, my love," said Aziraphale.

Crowley felt comforted by his tone. He demonstrated his improved mood by mixing Aziraphale a cocktail. Remembering his humiliating failure, he had gone to the Savoy and tempted Ada Coleman herself to teach him to make cocktails properly, with particular reference to her gin cocktails.

"Delicious," Aziraphale declared, taking a sip. "You really do have quite the talent for this. I will never accept Hanky Panky1 from anyone but you."

"You'd better not," snarled Crowley, trying to work out if it was intentional. Aziraphale looked at him with placid, guileless blue eyes.

"There's no reason not to be on friendly terms with Dagon just because they lied to, tempted and blackmailed me. It's in their fundamental nature as a demon."

"Gosh, thank you very much."

"Keeping my enemies close has always worked out for me in the past."

Crowley scowled, muttered "_My_ angel," and was pleased to see Aziraphale colour prettily, reaching out his hand and drawing a thumb over the back of Crowley's hand. Reflecting back his possessiveness. Bastard, not even letting Crowley get properly jealous and resentful.

"It's our only chance, really, of finding out what they want. Besides, Dagon is very helpful with my paperwork." Aziraphale's beautiful plump finger traced circles on his hand, followed the blue line of a vein. "They seem very keen on us both ."

"You do not, darling angel of my heart, want Dagon keen on you," Crowley sighed, but without rancour. Aziraphale could do quite magical things even chastely with those fingers. Besides, Aziraphale had finally decided to update his daywear to what he had thought of as sportswear only a few years ago, and the sight of him in a soft knitted cardigan jacket was fairly distracting. Crowley kept wanting to unbutton it, press close and wrap it around the two of them.

As to his own suit, Crowley was a bit worried that his heavily padded shoulders combined with his thin frame made him look like a walking black carrot, but fashion was fashion. He wondered what Aziraphale thought of him in it. If he imagined taking him out of it. If... He crushed down the thought. He wanted to finish this conversation, not go to have a private moment and a bit of a pathetic weep.

"Dagon's being altogether too blessed helpful," Crowley said. "Keeps smiling at me. And Beezlebub said they had been hearing great things of me and those who matter have an eye on my hard and devoted work to my Master's glory."

"I'm sure you work very hard and deserve all the praise," said Aziraphale, who knew quite well that the only thing Crowley had achieved last week was vanishing the clothes of some bathers at Blackpool.

"I don't like it," Crowley said. "Praise from Hell is unnatural."

"Unfortunately the same goes for Heaven as well, although they do like some nicely filled in reports."

"I don't like it," Crowley said again. What could he do, though? Complain that his line manager was being supportive? That probably _was_ a sin by Hell's standards, but Crowley knew how any complaints by himself would be treated. Complain that Dagon had tricked into marriage an angel Crowley thought of as his own particular property? That would cause a lot of amusement at his expense, and possibly a promotion for Dagon.

No, better to wait and see.

The decades went by, and the sword did not drop. Quite often, Crowley managed to forget it was there.

* * *

Crowley leaned back against the hotel desk, forcing himself to relax. Seoul was in the midst of preparation for the Olympics, Crowley was hosting a very nice dinner between some boxing judges and some government officials who were keen to see South Korea shine in boxing, and there was no reason to panic about a call from Down There. He was on top of the world.

"Make it quick, Dagon. I'm doing our Lord's work. Tempting and corrupting."

"Always the dedicated footsoldier of evil. I have happy news for our little family."

"What is it?" Crowley tried not to twiddle the phone call too anxiously in his fingers. Cool. He was cool. His suit was sharp, his shoulders had not been so padded since the thirties, his hairspray was a deadly weapon, and not even his line manager could melt his chill.

"It seems Her Dark Majesty Lilith is finally with cambion."

"What do you mean? It's not...?"

"Yes, it is." Dagon's satisfied malice oozed out of the phone. "And that means I have even happier news for you. Congratulations, Crowley. You and your fat angel are going to be fathers."

1 Equal parts gin and sweet vermouth, with two dashes of Fernet Branca. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Crowley raising the AntiChrist personally" was inspired by the movie script. I do hope he doesn't leave poor Adam lying around in a bag for anyone to pick up this time. Fortunately Aziraphale has some sense.


	10. Parenting the Antichrist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale deal with their baby, and Dagon's plans come to fruition. There's probably a nightingale singing somewhere.

Crowley held the future destroyer of the world in his arms, carefully supporting the tender little head with one hand. The head was so small it nearly fit into his hand, the slight dip of the fontanelle on its silky scalp vulnerable, the neck fragile. The Antichrist was so delicate right now. All it would take was one moment of decisive action...

...and Satan and Lilith would want to know why their son had turned up suddenly in Hell. Crowley told himself that was the reason he didn't destroy the child, not that the baby smelled nice and had a wise, somewhat grumpy expression that reminded him of Aziraphale.

He sighed and began to read to the baby from the picture book Dagon had considerately provided, citing childcare experts that said for full development a child should be read to from birth. "_And when the proud warriors were given titles, Dagon was singled out for the title Underduke because of their exceptional courage, beauty and intelligence. They did not mind the comparatively lowly title, because they knew their loyalty to the King would be rewarded when His son came to the throne, and because they sought only to serve their beloved Lord Beezlebub, to whom their devotion knew no bounds._ Hey, Aziraphale, how do you feel about your spouse using us to get into Beezlebub's knickers?"

"I probably have no grounds to complain while you're leaning your head against my knee," Aziraphale pointed out placidly and went back to whatever he was working on, his pen moving methodically across the page as he made annotations.

"Yeah. Well, it's a nice knee. And Dagon didn't seem to care much about increased proximity when they asked us to be daddies to the Antichrist." Crowley tickled the baby's tummy. Parenting was easy. Shove a bottle at him when his mouth made those wet hungry shapes, and the little prince of Evil was content. _Just_ like Aziraphale. "What shall we call our baby?"

"Doesn't it have a name already?"

"Don't call our son _it_."

"Don't call your Master's son _our_ son. I don't think He'd like it."

"Good point. I'm surprised Dagon hasn't already called it after themselves. They went by Zeus Atrioris at once point." Crowley considered the baby. "Zeus? Do you look like a Zeus? Nah, I don't want to encourage Dagon."

"Drake," Aziraphale said. "He's the Great Dragon, is he not? And Drake also means _serpent_. I'm quite fond of the name."

Crowley turned his head and, greatly daring, pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's knee. "Drake it is. You always were fond of ducks, too, so it's a hat-trick. Hello, Drake. Oh, look at his dear little fingernails... nnnghk." He clamped down on the rush of tenderness, too late.

"Oh, I _do_ hope we won't become too attached," sighed Aziraphale. "It's the Serpent of Eden all over again. Didn't seem to be any harm in it, just make polite conversation with the poor harmless creature without any arms and legs, and look where it got me. Nothing but trouble."

"Bastard," Crowley said affectionately. "Your angel-daddy is a bastard, Drakey-wakey." He poked Drake's soft little double-chin. The child really did look remarkably like Aziraphale. Blue eyes and golden eyelashes, too. He just needed spectacles. Oh, heaven, Drake would look adorable in spectacles. Did they come in newborn size? "What are you working on? Another translation?"

"Dagon sent a contract under which I am responsible for keeping the Antichrist safe from other Heavenly detection or intervention. I'm making amendments." Aziraphale said it remarkably calmly, apparently oblivious to the terror that swept over Crowley at the reminder. This was no joke. This was the end of everything. And perhaps they would have been able to pass their Arrangement, even their attempt at marriage, off as trying to get one over the other, but this... Aziraphale would be damned if Heaven found out he had agreed to protect the Antichrist. There would be no way out. 

Crowley's throat closed, and it was a struggle to get the words through it. "Renounce us."

"_What_?"

"Renounce me. Renounce the Arrangement. Renounce Dagon. Renounce Drake." Crowley hugged the baby close. "Get out while you can. You always said Heaven was going to win, right? Make sure you're on the right side when it happened." He swallowed despite his dry mouth, resting his head against Drake's. The baby smelled of sweet milk. "Smite us quickly, and go report."

Aziraphale put down his pen. "I'm not going to smite you, Crowley, or that unfortunate child. It wouldn't do the slightest bit of good anyway. I'm already compromised beyond belief."

"You've decided to Fall already? Aziraphale. What if Hell wins? We don't do mercy. What if Heaven wins and they see you as a traitor?"

"I'm sure that won't be necessary. No, all we have to do is make sure he doesn't rule over the entire Earth when he grows up. It can't be that difficult. Plenty of children don't. And then Heaven will be pleased and everything will be all right."

"Why are you so cheerful?" Crowley asked, if anything more anxious because of that than he would have been if Aziraphale was fretting. 

Aziraphale handed him the contract, and Crowley glanced it over. It was dense and confusing as only a demon could write it, and not just any demon at that, but the Master of Paperwork. Aziraphale had made neat annotations and changes. Crowey read through approvingly. For all Aziraphale protested his confusionof contracts, he had apparently not been wasting his time with Dagon without learning.

_And in anticipation of this agreement I, the Demon Dagon, Underduke of Hell, relinquish all rights to the hand of the angel Aziraphale, Principality of Earth, and agree to the annulment of our marriage, including relinquishing all former rights to his fidelity._

"Aziraphale." Crowley sat at the angel's feet, clutching the Antichrist in one arm and a demonic contract in his fist.

"My dear. My very, very dear Crowley. Do you accept my heart and my hand and love for all eternity?"

"Yes." It didn't seem enough. "Gosh, yes." Crowley managed to stumble to his feet somehow and then onto Aziraphale's lap, awkwardly holding Drake from being pressed between them while he tilted his face to be kissed. "Angel, my angel, my darling. At _last_. God, Aziraphale, I love you so much, I adore you. My love—"

A long, drawn-out squelching noise came from the region of Drake's nappy. It seemed to go on for minutes. Drake, seemingly objecting to the noise he had just made, began to wail.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "I'm afraid the Antichrist's bowel movements are purely a demonic responsibility."

"You _bastard._" Crowley, despite his better judgement, peeked in the nappy. It looked like it was filled with the slime from the fifth circle of Hell. "Is it supposed to be green-black? Dagon's going to kill me if Drake's sick. The Dark Lord himself is going to kill me Draco's sick."

"Meconium," Aziraphale said sympathetically. "It's been in his poor little tummy in the womb, and hell only knows what Lilith eats, I shudder to think. Better out than in, eh, little one? Don't worry, your demon-daddy will deal with it."

"You're _both_ bastards," said Crowley, and slithered off Aziraphale's lap. "I am completely outnumbered by bastards in this flat." Despite the fact that he wasn't at all sure the world wasn't going to end in eleven years, and the even more disturbing fact that he was about to change the Antichrist's dirty nappy, he felt ridiculously happy. "I'll get Drake cleaned up and fed, you get the paperwork to Dagon, and then... and then... and then I'm getting my hands on you, and you'll see."

"I look forward to it," Azriaphale said, and his eyes were shining behind his glasses. He reached up and removed them, and quite frankly he might as well have done a strip-tease judging by the effect on Crowley.

The nappy wasn't as bad smelling as he feared, not considering some of the things Crowley had encountered in Hell. Not exactly _romantic_ when he was intending to get Aziraphale out of that cardigan as fast as demonly possible, but not as stomach-churning as Crowley, who had never really come to terms with the concept of bodily fluids, feared. It was so hideously tarlike that he could pretend it wasn't organic at all.1 He tried hard not to think about whether Lilith had been bolstering the iron in her diet with the blood of sinners.

What _was_ bad was that Crowley's calm, easy to look after Antichrist started to scream like an imp about to be fed to a hellhound the moment its backside was bare, and didn't calm down after Crowley had carefully restrained his writing body long enough to redress him and cuddle him. "Come on, baby boy," he crooned, rocking on his heels as the baby in his arms loudly protested this whole being on Earth thing, face red and screwed up. "Earth isn't so bad. Better than Down There, I promise you. I'm not so bad, either. Pretty easy going. And you've lucked out. You've got the best angel to love you, even though he's pretending he doesn't yet. He does that. Pretend. But being loved by him is the best possible thing in eternity. Whatever else happens in eleven years, we have Aziraphale, and that's worth everything. Be good to him, Drake, when you come into your powers. He's so good to me."

"Here." There was a surprisingly quiet step behind him, and Aziraphale took the baby from his arms. He was blinking rapidly, but he turned away before Crowley was sure there were tears involved. He deftly wrapped the child in one of his summer scarves, a light muslin thing, and Drake settled, going to sleep as if a light had been turned off. "There you go, little one." He carefully set the baby down in the crib that had been waiting since Crowley's return to Korea with the news of the incoming Antichrist.

"How did you learn to do that?"

"I've attended many a laying in, my dear. This is not the first set of swaddling clothes I've tied."

"Oh, of course not. The—the Other baby."

"Among others." Aziraphale smiled at him. "Dagon accepted the alteration."

"What, already? Where are they?"

"Not here. Nevertheless, it's now signed with Dagon's true name. It's not like they had any particular interest in being married to me in the first place. Yes, I'm it's accepted. Drake should be asleep for at least an hour before waking."

"Just an hour?"

"An hour?"

"Perhaps two. He should need feeding every two hours at this age."

"You're kidding me."

"Not at all. He has a very small tummy right now, and a lot of growing to do."

"Yeah, needs to grow up big and strong to destroy the world," Crowley said bitterly.

Aziraphale stepped closer. "But I think you're missing an important point. Which is, my marriage is dissolved. And I find myself in need of a husband. I believe you were indicating your acceptance—"

Crowley crushed the rest of the words out of his mouth, and Aziraphale's arms came around him, and for the moment even the end of the world didn't matter. 

It mattered more when he woke from a blissful doze. He had been covered over with a blanket that was both softer and more tartan than any blanket should be, caredully tucked around him. Unused muscles ached, not to mention other parts of him, and for a while all he could do was think _my angel, angel, angel._

His angel was pacing around, and from the low murmur of his voice he was soothing Drake. In Enochian. Crowley wanted to go hug them both. Instead he lay there, and thought of the future. Asylum for Aziraphale, perhaps? Crowley could go to Dagon and offer... anything. The most stupid thing to offer a demon, of course, but if it kept Aziraphale safe... Safe to endure the defeat of Heaven, the destruction of the Earth and the making of a new one in the image of Hell, the eternal torment of the other angels and human souls. Aziraphale might think Crowley's love would make up for that, but for how long of an eternity?

Heaven and Hell hated each other. There would be no mercy on either side.

Crowley could turn traitor. Kill Drake, and suffer the consequences. If only the kid didn't have such tiny fingernails. Sacrifice himself for love, and then what? Aziraphale _loved_ him. Crowley remembered the broken words in his ear just an hour ago, and shivered. Aziraphale would never be happy with Crowley destroyed or eternally tormented.

Crowley buried his face in the arm of the couch, so Aziraphale wouldn't see any tears. He was terrified. He was desperate, and hopeless—

No. Not hopeless. There had to be a way out. There always was. Even the first war, even the Fall, had left Crowley fine. Even falling stupidly in love with an angel had meant the angel loved him too. Whether it was God or the universe on his side, Crowley always came up roses. Ineffably, Aziraphale would say, which was the same as saying it was bonkers, but that didn't matter.

_No, all we have to do is make sure he doesn't rule over the entire Earth when he grows up. It can't be that difficult. Plenty of children don't._

Perfectly simple. Bonkers, but that didn't matter. Ineffability was like that.

Crowley wiped his face on the blanket and went and put his arms around Aziraphale from behind, cuddling Drake as well. 

"It's a beautiful world," he said. "I don't want it destroyed by war and plague and famine. I like it the way it is. And so will he."

"There's plenty of plague and famine and war already, and a lot of evil in the world," Aziraphale said doubtfully. He leaned back slightly, transferring some of his weight to Crowley.

"Yes. And you love the first Evil, and you can love the little incarnation of Evil there, and he'll love you. It will be all right. And he has access to the best blessed bookstore in the world. We can do this, angel."

Aziraphale smiled. "I rather hoped you would feel that way."

* * *

**Tel Megiddo, eleven years later**

"'Cos it's stupid. Look at those two. They're not fighting, are they? I mean, they argue a lot, but if Aziraphale ever gets really upset Crowley buys him flowers an' theatre tickets an' things an' _cries._"

The red-hot beautiful being that was Beelzebub turned its gaze on Crowley, and he felt that actually he had been wrong to fear eternal torment, eternal torment was just fine so long as he didn't have to stay there much longer listening to Drake explain just how whipped he was.

Aziraphale slid a warm hand into his, and Crowley relaxed. 

"See, look at them. Soppy on each other." Drake smiled approvingly at his foster fathers. "No need to fight just 'cos you're angels and demons. Do like those two."

"Are you suggesting I hold Beelzebub's _hand_?" the Metatron demanded.

"Why not? Demons aren't all bad anyway. Look at Aunty Dagon. Beautiful and strong and clever and devoted to Beelzebub. All they're tryin' to do is make Beelzebub happy, and what if they died in the war? What if they _both_ died? They could never get married then. Never been to a demon wedding before. And you're not killing my own angel and demon either. They're a bit useless, but they try their best."

"Our dear loyal boy," murmured Aziraphale.

"No war. None. Defender agrees, don't you, girl?" The hellhound gave a deep, massive growl, and wagged a huge tail. "Look. All I'm _sayin'_ is, no war. You gotta be friends. You gotta, you gotta have parties and invite each other and stuff." Drake folded his arms over his chest and beamed as if he had settled the entire question. And perhaps he had. 

"Your Father—"

"My Father likes rebels. Great, He got one. That's logic, isn't it? And He knows He won't win, not really. The Almighty wouldn't have set it up that way. No, don't look like that, Metratron. You angels aren't going to have much fun either. No humans to boss around. No competition. And how many of you really want to be destroyed? It's like I was saying..."

It looked like the dispute was going to go on for some time, but Crowley had the warm feeling it was going to be all right, somehow. He'd watched Aziraphale argue with Drake about bedtime, and even _Aziraphale_ had given in to his iron will and ability to talk and talk and talk until you felt that you would commit to the deepest pit of fire for millennia if he would just stop for a minute. The ranks of millions of demons and angels watching from their own plane didn't have a hope against Drake once he got a good flood of words going.

"I really think it will be all right," Aziraphale said, echoing Crowley's thoughts.

"Yeah. You did good with that kid."

"That's my job. You did badly."

"That's my job." They grinned at each other, dizzy with relief and pride. Gosh, Crowley thought. How did he ever become lucky enough to have his family? Look at Drake, standing up to the forces of Heaven and Hell as if they were. stupid younger children, with no weapons but a motor mouth and love of his foster parents. Look at Aziraphale, at one and the same time a rotund, rather irritable book dealer in a woolly jumper and tie, and a being of heavenly goodness with more wings and eyes than you could poke a pitchfork at, and utterly perfect and loveable in every way. And they _loved_ him, snake that he was. 

Maybe it would reinforce Drake's point if Crowley kissed Azirphale breathless in front of the assembled armies.

"Wait." Beelzebub drifted across from the small group, still red hot and fiery, and buzzing more than usual. "The young Prinzzze said zzzomething about Dagon."

"Oh, yeah." Crowley smirked, squeezing Aziraphale's hand and looking proudly across to where the Metatron was vainly trying to get a word in with their boy, "The demons can't love thing is bunk, clearly. And Dagon is absolutely, completely..." After all, he supposed he owed his fellow demon a heaven of a favour.

"Really?"

"_Really_," Aziraphale said firmly, and pulled Crowley closer. "You're all beings of love underneath,"

"That'sss disgusssting," and "That'zz disguzzzzzting," the demons chorused, but Crowley laid his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. Love conquered all, he supposed.

So long as he never had to say that aloud.

1 Although there were some bodily fluids he was interested in exploring further, if only with Aziraphale. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying with my erratic updates! This fic has actually been pretty close to my heart, and it's satisfying to have it complete. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Titles of chapters including Dagon are inspired by Kylie Minogue's song catalogue because there's a rule that stories featuring Dagon have to have Kylie Minogue references. No, I didn't make up the rule. It's ineffable.


End file.
